Cast In Shadows
by Valhalla
Summary: CHAPTER 12 UP FINALLY! Set immediately after 'Rain of Fire' ... the PTBs have decided to even the score a little and send some help to the good guys. The triumphant return of Doyle, Whistler and many more ...
1. Default Chapter

SUMMARY: Takes place immediately following 'Rain of Fire'. The Powers That Be decide to settle the score with a little help for the good guys.  
  
'SHIPS: F/G, C/C for now, but I LOATHE that storyline . plus there's someone else about to make an appearance.  
  
DISCLAIMER: I don't own any of them; they all belong to demi-god Joss . don't sue me. The song's 'Left and Leaving' by the Weakerthans (great song!) and the poem's a snippet of Robert Frost's 'Fire and Ice'. Cheers! Reviews are wonderful!  
  
****************  
  
My city's still breathing (but barely it's true) through buildings gone missing like teeth.  
  
The sidewalks are watching me think about you, all sparkled with broken glass.  
  
I'm back with scars to show.  
  
Back with the streets I know.  
  
They never take me anywhere but here.  
  
Those stains in the carpet, this drink in my hand, these strangers whose faces I know.  
  
We meet here for our dress-rehearsal to say  
  
"I wanted it this way" and wait for the year to drown.  
  
Spring forward, fall back down.  
  
I'm trying not to wonder where you are.  
  
All this time lingers, undefined.  
  
Someone choose who's left and who's leaving.  
  
Memory will rust and erode into lists of all that you gave me:  
  
some matches, a blanket, this pain in my chest, the best parts of Lonely,  
  
duct-tape and soldered wires,  
  
new words for old desires, and every birthday card I threw away.  
  
I wait in 4/4 time.  
  
Count yellow highway lines that you're relying on to lead you home.  
  
  
  
She woke.  
  
Two bright, brown eyes opened, peering into the surrounding thicket of darkness.  
  
(-Is it over?-)  
  
The scattered remnants of candles, colourful wax puddles, adorned the bookcase, the shelves by the bed. They hadn't bothered to blow them out. What was more fire to the flaming halo engulfing the city? It was done . it was done. Let the end come as it would.  
  
Cordelia untangled herself from Connor's gawky, tender embrace; his pale, stick-thin arms wrapped tightly around her mid-section. He was all jutting limbs and bony joints, regressing to the look of a newborn foal in sleep, frail and awkward. A prepubescent jumble of a body.  
  
(-sickly grey headache sky, and the birds . oh god, the birds-)  
  
A little boy. Young. Innocent. Stripped of everything he held dear; deprived of everything he was meant to have. Memories of his arms, his sweet breath, flooded her mind.  
  
(-they're flying-)  
  
Cordelia quietly slipped into her clothes, which lay strewn across the loft floor. Glanced back at the little boy tucked comfortably into a nest of blankets, mousy brown hair feathered across his pillow.  
  
(-It doesn't matter, it's done now . or it will be soon.-)  
  
She took post next to the window, a silent sentinel, watching the city burn. The rain continued, burst of flames falling soundlessly from the sky. Tiny blazes had sprung up around Los Angeles, but Cordelia knew the burning, this baptism of fire, was only the beginning.  
  
(-Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice-)  
  
Cordelia forced back a maniac giggle; swallowed it with a painful hiccup. A wave of quiet sobs racked her body; she spared a glance at the comatose form of her young lover, hoping he wouldn't wake. Let him sleep . she would watch the City of Angels burn . Repenting. Atoning.  
  
(-from what I've tasted of desire, I hold with those who favour fire-)  
  
I couldn't stop it, she thought miserably. I had the arrogance to believe that all of this was part of my destiny. She leaned her forehead against the cool cement wall, eyes mercifully closed against the fiery onslaught.  
  
(-my fault?-)  
  
Cinders, still bright hot and swept from the ashes of L.A's decimated buildings, danced on the humid breeze, marking her skin. A coal-hued cloud rose heavily above the city, hung there, suspended. The rain continued.  
  
(-is it?-)  
  
Suddenly . a sharp splinter of the most brilliant pain cleaved through her head, a million lights exploded in her mind. It seized her without warning, the intense ache driving her body unceremoniously to the ground.  
  
(-ohgodohgodohgodohgod-)  
  
Cordelia lay in a crumpled heap, clutching her head and shrieking for relief, tears streaming down her ashen face. Her limbs thumped and twitched rhythmically, unbidden; her torso was a lifeless harbour to the mess of flailing arms and legs. Then-  
  
-it was done. Cordelia lifted herself weakly on one elbow, rubbing her temples in agony. Since the Beast rose from the bowels of Hell, her visions had become unbearable, horrifying. She could feel Connor's comforting presence beside her, obviously woken by her cries of pain. He gathered her in his arms, rubbed her back soothingly. (-Everything's so muddle; I can't even see straight-)  
  
Words broke through her confused collection of thoughts. (-A question? Her vision? Connor?-) Cordelia attempted to stand, but collapsed clumsily back onto the floor. She brushed her eyes carelessly, feeling the warm, wet salt of tears. Every fiber of her being simply ached.  
  
(-Somebody's talking to me-)  
  
She peered at Connor again, steeling herself for the rush of nausea and spinning images. Nothing. It was gone. The physical pain was beginning to subside, but still that ache, that sense of wrongness, remained.  
  
"Cordelia?" Connor demanded, worry evident in his voice. "Are you alright?"  
  
She nodded, if somewhat forcefully, fingers still massaging her temples slightly.  
  
"What did you see?"  
  
Cordelia paused, sifting through the fragments from her vision. She turned to face the open window, considering the siege of fire still assaulting L.A. Her words were so quiet, at first Connor wasn't sure she'd even spoken. Then, repeated, more insistant, but barely above a mutter.  
  
"What, Cordelia?" he questioned. "What did you see?"  
  
The girl faced him, her eyes unusually bright. A slight smile played on her lips. This time, the words clear, distinct:  
  
"They sent help."  
  
***********  
  
Across the city.  
  
The habour. A long-neglected pier littered with wooden boxes, crates, random debris left to gather dust. Abandoned equipment and supplies strewn across the boards. Strains of fire sailed through the air, landing with a sizzle in the ocean, safely extinguished.  
  
Lightening cracked through the red-streaked sky; pounding thunder followed. All across Los Angeles, people looked up. It was dismissed as the next step towards impending doom by most, who returned to their fearful hiding, their mending of the wounded.  
  
But a few saw something more. Fred, huddled in a diner seat, clutching her useless cell phone in one fist, gazed through the shattered window in amazement. Welsey, arm still wrapped tight around Gunn's inert form, paused the struggle to drag his unconscious friend to shelter and stared with confusion. Angel, still stationed outside the loft that Cordelia and Connor shared, perched on the adjacent roof, considered the extreme weather with a measure of perplexity. Lorne, now surrounded by the relative safety of the Hyperion's walls, looked out the bay window, a strange emotion washing over his green features-something akin to hope.  
  
The lightening continued to rage.  
  
Back over at that neglected pier, a young man's comatose form had now appeared. He was clothed in heavy boots, jeans, a green sweater and a battered leather jacket. A silver Claddaugh ring adorned the third finger of his right hand. The man did not move; simply lay still, not even rising in breath. His frame was rigid with death, or perhaps, more correctly, a very deep sleep.  
  
Suddenly, he woke.  
  
Two bright blue eyes opened, pierced the darkness, and his chest arched as a gasp of air flowed through his lungs.  
  
Allen Francis Doyle was home.  
  
**************  
  
I'm back with scars to show.  
  
Back with the streets I know.  
  
They never take me anywhere but here. 


	2. Chapter Two

DISCLAIMER: Hey y'all . just wanted to remind you that I don't own any of the characters, don't sue poor university students . this chapter might be a little short cuz I'm super busy, but I just might update it later . the song's a wicked one, it's 'For Me This is Heaven' by Jimmy Eat World, and the little snippet is from 'Amazing Grace' (yea for playing Master of the Obvious!). Cheers!  
  
The first star I see may not be a star.  
  
We can't do a thing but wait.  
  
So let's wait for one more.  
  
The time such clumsy time in deciding if it's time.  
  
I'm careful but not sure how it goes.  
  
You can loose yourself in your courage.  
  
The mindless comfort grows when I'm alone with my 'great' plans.  
  
This is what she says gets her through it:  
  
"If I don't let myself by happy now then when?"  
  
If not now when?  
  
When the time we have now ends.  
  
When the big hand goes round again.  
  
Can you still feel the butterflies?  
  
Can you still hear the last goodnight?  
  
Close my eyes and believe wherever you are, an angel for me.  
  
****************************  
  
The world crumbled around him. Fiery stars still descended on the City of Angels- burning, devouring. The sky had taken on a dull, orange hue; the scent of sulfur wafted on the air. Then there were the screams. It was-  
  
(-Hell on Earth-)  
  
'Yes,' Angel mused, strolling non-chalantly through the city as if he were taking a casual evening walk. His hands were shoved into the deep pockets of his duster, his features pensive, yet slightly amused. 'Hell on Earth and there's nothing I can do to stop it.'  
  
At first, he had fought. Even after his brutal defeat to the Beast, the near-slaughter of all his friends, then after witnessing Cordelia and Connor, together-  
  
(-And I do believe my poor, undead heart shattered into a million pieces at that precise moment-)  
  
-even after that, he had continued to struggle, to rage against the evil.  
  
Even with the hopelessness becoming a heavy, penetrating ache in his soul, he had fought. Helped put out small fires, stop looters from ransacking downtown boutiques, pulled a few hapless victims to safety. But hours passed, and the blazes grew stronger; the rumble of earthquakes rocked L.A.  
  
And Angel had realized . it was just getting worse. One more saved innocent wouldn't matter, because it was almost over anyway. That last thought washed over him serenely, accompanied by a desperate relief. So close to . freedom? He broke down. It was selfish, but it after everything, it was welcome.  
  
(-I'm almost done-)  
  
Angel continued through the broken streets, taking in the mayhem with a measure of indifference. He was a specter, a lost dream of the big city, stumbling through cracked cinder blocks and a thick layer of all- encompassing dust. No one noticed this is exceptionally pale, smiling young man, but the circumstances didn't exactly lend themselves to critical observation.  
  
(-It's finished . finished-)  
  
The sky looked like it was on fire.  
  
(-Finally.-)  
  
Then . something changed. A shift in the winds, a change in temperatures . Angel's keen senses roared in response. Vague and intangible, but still there . The air felt cleaner, purified of the ozone, after-burning tang; the eternal night that had descended on L.A seemed a little less impenetrable. It was-  
  
(-a clean slate?-)  
  
Angel felt a chill creep up his spine. He paused, cocked his ear to some distant disturbance. Something . no, someone had arrived. He knew, beyond anything he had ever believed to of known . and it was going to change everything.  
  
Sudden adrenaline coursed through his bloodless veins. Angel took off at a breakneck sprint, racing like a madman through Los Angeles' deserted streets, his long, dark jacket billowing behind him.  
  
(-Through many dangers, toils and snares I have already come-)  
  
There was a presence . a lingering familiarity, but it felt like the pale ghost of some old emotion. This was distinctly new, evolved. A fluctuation of the fates; relocation to the order of the universe. Yes, something had changed.  
  
(-'Tis grace hath brought me safe thus far, and grace will lead me home-)  
  
Suddenly, it mattered again. Gunn and Fred and Lorne and Wesley . even Connor and Cordelia. He could help . yes, he could do something. His shattered spirit was almost mended; he felt a genuine surge of . hope since the destruction and chaos had begun.  
  
(-to live?-)  
  
Angel's pace slowed significantly as the thoughts churned through his mind. To suffer those same punishments he'd endured for so long? Loneliness, guilt, regret . a quest for atonement littered with bodies. To be robbed of the things he held dear, deprived of everything he craved, and be cruelly taunted with this knowledge every single day.  
  
There was a moment of hesitation; the sweet temptation of escape was so close . but still he ran. Faster. His decision had been made. Because this new arrival was more important than his pain or liberation . it could maybe save them all.  
  
************  
  
The light was too bright.  
  
(-whathefuck?-)  
  
His back ached. It hurt to breath.  
  
Everything felt real.  
  
(-whatheFUCK?!-)  
  
All his senses were assaulted at once: myriad scents filled his nose, he was equally chilled and insufferably hot, that harsh, blinding light invaded his eyesight . every fibre of his being throbbed with a deep, penetrating pain.  
  
He squinted against the piercing glare (-is it fire?-), flexed his left hand experimentally. Raised the other hand to his face, feeling several days' worth of stubble and the ridge of scar tissue along his brow. Breath still came in hissing, desperate gasps, his lungs readjusting to the earth's unique atmosphere.  
  
(-alive?-)  
  
Doyle gingerly rose from the . dock, he was laying on a dock, inspected his surroundings. A habour, now deserted and ill-kept but recently used. Covered in soot. And the city, ripe with madness and bedlam, bathed in the red, feverish glow of flame .  
  
(-the city of Angels-)  
  
Angels . Angel.  
  
(-it's burning-)  
  
He remembered.  
  
He remembered everything.  
  
****************************  
  
A/N: I know this one was short and not so good, but I'll have another chapter posted by Wednesday or Thursday, I promise!!! Remember, a review is the gift that keeps on giving! 


	3. Chapter Three

DISCLAIMER: As most of you probably now know, Glenn Quinn passed away last week. I'm still reeling from the news ... no words can rightfully express the loss we've all experienced. He will be greatly missed, but always remembered: "May you be in Heaven half an hour before the Devil knows you're dead" ... This fanfiction, as well as all those Doyle-related stories to follow, will be dedicated to the memory of Glenn. I know it's not much, but it's the best I can offer to my long-time, and now dearly departed, inspiration. Slainte, my friend ... Just to keep you updated, the rain of fire continues still, The Beast goes undefeated and Doyle has returned. The song's 'Exit Music (For A Film) by Radiohead.  
  
A/N: Sorry, I know this is getting long, but I wanted to address some of my much-adored reviewers:  
  
Shanid- Don't worry, they'll be lots of dialogue in this chapter and every forthcoming episode. As for diminishing characters like Wes and Gunn, I promise I won't, but keep in mind that Cordelia and Angel will be featured predominantly at first, because they're the ones actually connected to Doyle. But I love the rest of the Fang Gang, and they will get their play soon ... as for the Scoobies, you'll just have to wait and see! ;)  
  
Insane- Thank you so much for your wonderful review. Encouragement like yours' is so inspiring!  
  
******************  
  
wake from your dreams  
  
the drying of your tears  
  
today we escape  
  
we escape  
  
pack and get dressed  
  
before your father hears us  
  
before all hell breaks loose  
  
breathe keep breathing  
  
don't loose your nerve  
  
breathe keep breathing  
  
i can't do this alone  
  
sing us a song  
  
a song to keep us warm  
  
there's such a chill, such a chill  
  
you can laugh  
  
a spineless laugh  
  
we hope your rules and wisdom choke you  
  
now we are one  
  
in everlasting peace  
  
we hope that you choke, that you choke  
  
************************  
  
Whistler sighed.  
  
The weight of the world was in that breath.  
  
(-Must we do this again, kiddies?-)  
  
The glow of the fires-now engulfing all of Los Angeles-reflected in his steel grey eyes. Eyes that had seen centuries of conflict, loss of innocents and the slow death of good. Eyes that betrayed a deep and gnawing grief for the pitiful human race, while the rest of his ruddy features displayed only sarcasm and smug arrogance. He sighed again.  
  
Once more, total apocalypse threatened the existence of Earth and all its' inhabitants. Another being who sought to nullify the planet's existence. Whistler watched the hoards of frantic, scrambling people; the populace of L.A spilling out into the streets with suitcases and boxes and small children, fleeing their burning, doomed city. Traffic filled the streets; every road was crammed with vehicles desperate to escape Los Angeles. The clarion of horns filled the air, shrill honking, like a frightened, manic medley. Many simply abandoned their cars, and lugging as many useless goods as they could, ran for the hills.  
  
(-Like lambs to the slaughter-)  
  
Whistler dutifully straightened the collar of his black leather jacket, adjusted the angle of his jauntily-tilted hat. There was work to be done, a balance to be restored. His faith in The Powers That Be had sometimes wavered, been often doubt, but they always managed to get it right in the end.  
  
Until Buffy fell in love with a vampire. That's when the PTB's tediously- managed equilibrium began to crumble, and things started to go wrong. Angel was sent to Hell; a big bad on the part of the People Upstairs, remedied only by the sudden return of ceid-vampire Warrior. Faith started playing for the evil side of the kickball game, though last Whistler heard she'd atoned for past crimes. People died who weren't meant to, like the half- demon martyr Doyle and a certain blond Slayer. Children were sprung from the loins of chaos and destruction, their destinies unforeseen and precarious: Dawn the human embodiment of the Key, and Connor the vampiric spawn raised in a Hell dimension.  
  
(-And we don't even know what he's made of yet-)  
  
The Powers That Be were loosing control, and the pendulum (for so long still and neutral) was swinging dangerously close towards The Evil ... Whistler chuckled humourlessly. He surveyed the ruins of Los Angeles, gazing upon the charred remains of the once-thriving city, now half- deserted and permeated with anarchy.  
  
The energy in the air shifted again, like it had upon Doyle's arrival. Within the City of Angels, amid the chaos and burning, more demons, brethren of the Beast, sprang from the ground, rising from the bowels of the Earth to slaughter the remaining populace.  
  
(-How much closer can you get?-)  
  
Whistler was quite certain that somewhere, some god must be laughing.  
  
**********************  
  
We hope that you choke, that you choke.  
  
  
  
A/N: Okay, okay I know this one was super, super short and didn't have any Doyle (or any dialogue, for that matter) in it, but it's all I had time to write, what with exams coming up, and I didn't want to wait like, three weeks between updates. The next chapter will be done pretty soon; I've already got a page or so written! Cheers! 


	4. Chapter Four

DISCLAIMER: Okay kids, I have a little request for all of you reading this fanfic ... I've been getting a lot of feedback, which is wonderful; some people have even suggested 'shippers to me. This is what I'm asking of you: to submit a review telling me who you'd like to end up with whom. I've got some couples in mind, but I'd really like to know which couplings are most popular. So please do me this huge favour and tell me who's destined to be with Angel, Buffy, Wesley, Cordelia and Doyle. Much thanks! Oh, the song's by Bruce Springsteen, and it's called 'My City of Ruin', and the quotes are from the song 'The Innocent' by Goldfinger, Good Charlotte and Mest, 'Wild Horses' by the Stones, and 'Dead Is The Drunkest That You Can Get' by those good old Canadian rockers The Rheostatics. Cheers! And as always, this one's for you Glenn ...  
  
******************  
  
"The start of Armageddon, and it's just another day."  
  
-'The Innocent'  
  
"Let's do some living, after we die."  
  
-'Wild Horses'  
  
"Dead is the drunkest that you can get, though I haven't got that drunk yet."  
  
****************** There is a blood red circle  
  
on the cold dark ground  
  
and the rain is falling down  
  
The church door's blown open  
  
I can hear the organ's song,  
  
but the congregation's gone  
  
My city of ruins  
  
My city of ruins  
  
Now the sweet bells of mercy  
  
drift through the evening trees,  
  
young men on the corner  
  
like scattered leaves,  
  
the boarded up windows,  
  
the empty streets  
  
While my brother's down on his knees  
  
My city of ruins  
  
My city of ruins  
  
Come on, rise up!  
  
Come on, rise up!  
  
Now's there's tears on the pillow,  
  
darlin' where we slept  
  
and you took my heart when you left  
  
Without your sweet kiss  
  
my soul is lost, my friend  
  
Tell me how do I begin again?  
  
My city's in ruins  
  
My city's in ruins.  
  
Angel was still running when the demons caught up with him.  
  
Sprinting past the ransacked buildings, now simply large piles of glorified firewood, the heat of the flames growing unbearably warm on his skin. He'd been racing so fast that any living being would be gasping for breath, their heart thumping wildly in their chest; Angel would of looked cool and collected after a marathon. He was only two, maybe three blocks from the Hyperion ... three blocks from the answers to his questions, from the quelling of his fears. The Warrior clung desperately to the thought of who awaited him at the hotel; who had to be there. Because if he arrived to an empty, silent lobby, to a mocking, dead whisper that echoed through every recess of that now-veritable tomb, then ...  
  
(-I don't know-)  
  
That realization sent a wave of panic spiraling through the vampire-in- motion; a cool brand of fear settled deep in his stomach. Every iota of energy had been spent on reaching home, he'd barely given any thought to what would happen if he was wrong.  
  
(-I can't be; I just ... know-)  
  
Angel's steadfast faith in his ethereal visitor, the anchor which kept him from plunging into the icy depths of despair, began to faltered.  
  
(-Do you, really? Maybe you're just so desperate, you've convinced yourself ...-)  
  
'No.'  
  
It was strong, determined, resounding. 'I felt the ... change, in the air. That electricity. Someone's here, someone good, and they're going to help us win.' Angel The Hopeful emerged victorious from his silent battle of the psyche. Possibilities, images of Warriors long-departed or much exalted flashed through his frantic mind. The scent, the feel of this new caller was ... intimate, familiar, though.  
  
Dark.  
  
As if a thick band of lead was wrapped around his soul ... and very slowly, the poison was seeping through every fibre of his being.  
  
And then ... the smell of slaughter with it, ripe and vicious.  
  
Angel didn't have time to follow up on that last contemplation, however, because five noxious-looking demons materialized from the shadows, advancing on him with slimy, greedy claws. They resembled The Beast, with cloven hooves and protruding horns, but their figures were hunched, submissive; the incognizant forms of witless slaves. The creatures shuffled towards him, their dark eyes glowing with the delicious urge to kill.  
  
Angel rotated slowly, admiring the loose circle the demon spawn had formed around him. "Ooh tactical, nice move!" he taunted, feeling cocky. He was high on his own power, the apparent weakness of his opponent, the inevitability of all this ending so soon. It was the first time he'd actually felt good in ages ... The demons merely grunted in reply.  
  
"What guys, no witty repartee?" the vampire demanded, feigning dismay. "And I was looking forward to exchanging some clever banter before I kicked your asses." He took a sharp swing at the nearest hellion.  
  
It missed.  
  
The offending demon grabbed Angel by the shoulders, and conveying all the effort of tossing a rag doll, threw him unceremoniously against a very solid, very painful brick wall.  
  
Groggy, the Warrior shook his head, then noticed that the creatures had surrounded him, and were closing in. Five of them. Against one. Of him. Who was currently backed into a dead end. With no help. Or weapons.  
  
"This is so not good."  
  
*******************  
  
Harriet Doyle had seen many strange things in her life, but nothing quite compared to the onslaught from Hell raging down on Los Angeles that very night. She'd observed over six dozen different tribes of demons, bore witness to some of the most bizarre rituals on Earth. Almost watching her ex-husband's brains be consumed by a clan of Anamovics definitely ranked up there, but this ... this really took the cake. Fiery orange stars seemed to fall from the sky, devastating the vegetation around Harriet's Malibu condo; that metallic red cloud still hung menacingly over the city. There'd been the earthquakes and the lightening storms ... now the sky was serene, but still spitting out a hail of fire.  
  
The ethnodemonologist watched with a touch of amazement as all the trees and bushes on the surrounding block were scorched black. The houses would be next, she mused, gazing about her stylish, airy home. The cozy sofas draped in fine Italian silks, the priceless antique artifacts adorning her walls, the Oriental throw rugs imported from Hong Kong ... Harry had thrown herself into a violent redecoration after her breakup with Richard, spending lavish amounts of money on a complete facelift for her beachfront house. She had needed a cleansing, a fresh beginning; an escape from the reminders of failures and disappointments in love. First Francis, then Richard ...  
  
(-That's not fair, sister. Francis was never a failure-)  
  
No, he'd never been that. Allen Francis Doyle, her ex-husband, half-demon hero and charming Irishmen, had flirted with endless identities, succumb to some awful vices in his young, doomed life. He'd stumbled often, sure, fallen even a couple of times, but in the end ...  
  
(-He won.-)  
  
Harry smiled. Out through the bay window, water lapped calmly on the edge of the beach. The ocean was bathed in that faint orange hue, the same areole of colour that haloed the city. Bidding a silent goodbye to her home of three years, she grasped the knapsack waiting patiently beside her and hefted the heavy canvas bag onto her back, grunting with exertion.  
  
(-Who know a couple of stakes and a ceremonial axe could be so heavy?!-)  
  
Well, it was worth it. She boarded up her little condo with the faint, comic hope that it would somehow survive the fires and the looters. Her Explorer was parked out front, already loaded with an illustrious collection of ancient tomes and musty books, more weapons and some light provisions. Casting one more lingering glance at her house, Harriet Doyle quickly hopped into her SUV and drove away to find the one person who could help her, leaving all the remnants of her normal life behind.  
  
One or two demons, sure ... Angel could handle that with his bare hands.  
  
A very large, very pointy piece of steel could take care of three or four demons.  
  
But half a dozen against a dizzy vampire with no place to go?  
  
"I've got a bad feeling about this," Angel muttered to himself, dragging his prone form off the ground and into fighting stance. That 'bad feeling' intensified as one of the creatures took a swing at The Warrior, landing it squarely in his stomach.  
  
The others quickly followed suite, and the vampire could barely keep on his feet before another demon joined the fray and pummeled the Warrior. He managed to get off a sharp right hook, throwing one of the creatures to the ground, then turning to toss another against the brick wall with mighty force.  
  
But there was still too many . too many to fight. They fought Angel to the cold pavement, fierce claws ripping at his skin, digging into his flesh. The beasts overwhelmed him; their blood-red eyes swallowing him whole.  
  
(-Connor . I'm sorry.-)  
  
Then there was a flash of steel and one demon slumped against the building, his gaping wound oozing thick, black blood. The creature shuttered with its' final breath and keeled over. The other beasts noticed the death of their brethren and distracted by the slaughter, turned their backs to Angel.  
  
That was all he needed.  
  
The vampire leapt to his feet, and with a quick roundhouse kick, managed to connect the solid flat of his heel with the back of a demon's skull. There was a sickening crack and the monster collapsed.  
  
Angel tensed into a fighting stance, ready to lunge at his next attacker. He gaped in surprise as the creature fell at his feet, a mammoth knife protruding from its' back. The weapon's owner had already continued fighting, drawing a heavy sword from the sheath on his back, flipping it deftly in his hand. He stabbed one charging demon, slicing through the midsection with a forceful lunge.  
  
(-He looks so familiar-)  
  
The thought was cut short by a forceful charge from one of last remaining demons. It wrestled Angel to the ground, snarling and snapping its' great, fanged jaws. The Warrior delivered a vigorous blow to the creature's gut, heaving him off. It returned with a violent, clawed swipe, and before Angel could stand, he was flat on his back again. The beast knelt over his prey, looming in for the kill. Angel watched the monster's approach with a measure of indifference, took in the feral stench and dripping mouth. The vampire was distantly aware that he was bleeding.  
  
(-Need to fight-)  
  
But he was so tired . his head throbbed, every bone in his undead body ached. Some warm liquid trickled into his eye, obscuring his vision. He was so tired . he just wanted to rest.  
  
A thick sword blade cleaved through the demon's middle, the tip emerging through scabbed, scarred flesh inches away from Angel's throat. The blood- soaked weapon was pulled back with a lurch; the corps quickly tossed aside. A hand was offered to the bewildered vampire.  
  
Angel's gaze slowly traveled up the arm that was extended to him, taking in its' owner's appearance ... battered, brown leather jacket, cable-knit sweater drenched with slimy demon blood, a couple of wicked-looking knives strapped to each thigh, dark jeans caked with mud and grime, heavy, army- issue boots ... and then he was staring into the man's eyes, an intense, startling steel blue.  
  
Angel swallowed forcefully.  
  
"... Doyle?"  
  
The former Seer and once-dead half-demon broke into a lopsided grin, hoisting his stunned friend off the ground. "In the flesh," he quipped, curling one strong hand around the back of Angel's collar, much like he'd done so many years ago aboard the Quintessa.  
  
(-That goodbye seems like a lifetime ago-)  
  
"I ... you're alive?" the vampire managed, gripping Doyle's shoulders tightly. " ...How?" If his heart could beat, it would of shuttered to a stop in this moment. The elation, the unbridled joy would come later ... for now Angel was quite simply dumbstruck.  
  
"I ..." the Warrior stuttered, his mind blank. There was so much he wanted to say ... but a strangled "I missed you" was all that came out.  
  
Doyle gazed up at his old friend, one of the only people who meant the world to him. Angel's soulful brown eyes were still wide with shock, but now they betrayed a deep, aching hurt, a potent loneliness ... and the half- demon knew his words were true. He grabbed the vampire in a quick, rough hug; a smile spreading over his pale features. "Right back at cha, boyo."  
  
(-It's good ta be home-)  
  
Angel nodded wordlessly, his grasp still firm on the half-demon's arm, frantic that he was still tangible, still there. He was frightened beyond belief that this Doyle wasn't real; a product of his desperate imagination, a cruel trick from the Powers That Be, and that as soon as loosened his grip, he would become as ethereal as the humid wind.  
  
"Are you ... are you here for good?" the vampire demanded, his voice breaking. "Do we get you back for good?"  
  
Doyle's grin stretched wider across his lips, blue eyes lighting up with a delighted glow. "They couldn't pull me away if they tried," he announced assuredly, resheathed the broadsword on his back. He tightened the strap that ran vertically across his torso. "Time ta get goin', yea?" he stated, glancing about with growing wariness. He noticed Angel's bloodied torso. "Can ya manage?"  
  
Angel had noticed a distinct change in the half-demon. First, there were the fantastic battle skills; Doyle now possessed a fluid, cat-like grace, an undaunted steel in his posture echoing the vampire's almost exactly; his reflexes were sharp, his strength impressive, his agility stunning. One hand rested comfortably on one of many knives, its' grip well-worn and familiar. He knew how to fight.  
  
But a warrior's abilities was not the only alteration that Angel noticed in his former Seer. He lacked that air of sanguine confidence, his lighthearted slouch and ready wit were pale ghosts of the past. It was in the tension clouding his clear blue eyes, the worry lines marring his smooth features, the clean, straight battle scar that down the left side of his face. Doyle's spirit had been killed as well, leaving simply a shell of what the man had once been ... the Irishman was cynical, jaded. Hardened.  
  
(-Did they teach hand-to-hand combat in Heaven?-)  
  
They began walking, a brisk, decisive pace. Angel broke the comfortable silence with a soft question. "Why did you do it?"  
  
Doyle glanced at his companion, his winsome features betraying amusement and slight confusion. "Do what, man?"  
  
"Jump."  
  
The half-demon smirked, but it slowly developed into a weary sigh. "Ah yes ... my short-lived but glorious career in bravery," he pronounced sarcastically, a hint of good humour evident in his tone.  
  
"It should of been me." Angel's statement was brutal, honest, drenched with self-loathing.  
  
"No." Doyle's voice had turned cold, forceful. He stopped, turning to face the vampire. "Don't ya dare try playin' broody boy wit' me, Angel. I know you better 'en that. Thought maybe after three years ya'd stopped the self- flagellating bullshit. Seems I was wrong, sadly."  
  
"You died for us," the vampire murmured remorsefully, his brown eyes glistening.  
  
"Right. I chose to die for you 'n Cordelia," Doyle maintained testily, jabbing the Warrior's shoulder to punctuate his points. "Because it was my time to play the hero for one moment in my pathetic, insignificant life. Because I needed to atone, and you needed to stay."  
  
"And what a great job I've done," Angel retorted sarcastically, gesturing to the flaming city around them.  
  
"Ya don't get it yet, do ya?" Doyle demanded in frustration, throwing his arms up in the air. "My God, man, I was hopin' the PTBs would give me back this gig just so I could kick your ass. 'Specially after firin' your staff and gettin' your jollies wit' Darla last year."  
  
The vampire looked away, shamefaced.  
  
"You comin' back from the fiery pits of Hell? Happened for a reason. My death and sudden resurrection? Reason behind that too. Startin' ta see a pattern here, boyo? Think of how many hapless victims you've saved in the past three years! Think of how many lives! You were the Warrior, and ya did good. Until you started forgettin' why you came back in the first place."  
  
Angel stood motionless, silently absorbing the Irishman's rant.  
  
"I was startin' to think I wasted my life on you ... and my death too." His tone was venomous, biting; his glare reproachful.  
  
"Doyle ." Angel sighed deeply. "Sometimes . it was hard without you."  
  
A long moment passed as the two Champions stood amid the burning rubble, regarding each other silently. When the half-demon spoke again, his voice was far more gentle. "I know it's been tough, boyo, but it's about ta get a helluva lot tougher." Doyle placed one hand on the vampire's shoulder, squeezing it affectionately. "Are ya game?"  
  
Angel brightened at the memory, the ghost of a smile touching his lips. "I'm game." He recommenced their steady pace towards the Hyperion, through the shattered glass and flaming buildings, through the eternal night and soot-covered ruins, but this time . this time hope and a little Irish half- demon were leading the way.  
  
  
  
Wesley Wyndam-Price poured over the texts before him, scanning his eyes over the ancient tomes, searching. He grabbed more dusty books, thumbing the pages expertly. The reading pile on the Hyperion's front counter was growing higher by the minute. Nothing, nothing . all useless. Frustration threatened to overwhelm the Englishman. How were they supposed to avert the bloody Apocalypse if there weren't any writings on it! Already Gunn was out cold, Angel wounded, Lorne and Fred back but visibly shaken, and Cordelia and Connor still unaccounted for.  
  
"Hi."  
  
His aggravated reverie was broken by a sudden feminine voice. Wesley gazed up at the petite redhead gracing their lobby. She was slim, fine-boned, her graceful body clothed in a white V-neck sweater and well-worn jeans. Orange- red curls framed a delicate, oval face, the skin deeply tanned and smattered with freckles. Her eyes were the deepest of browns; they promised laughter and light, but now reflected only an intense sadness.  
  
The Englishman had a bit of trouble finding his voice. "May I help you?"  
  
She glanced about the lobby. "I'm looking for ." Her response was interrupted by the appearance of exactly the ensouled vampire she sought. "Angel!"  
  
He was striding across the room, his injuries treated, his clothes fresh and clean. Angel's smile was uncertain. "Harry ... hi," His voice betrayed pleasant surprise. "It's been a while." His dark eyes shifted quickly, nervously to the upper floor, but she didn't seem to notice.  
  
(-Should I tell her now?-)  
  
The ethnodemonologist smiled in return. "I just got back from Malta last month. I was going to stop by anyway, but well ... impending apocalypse kinda knocked the visiting-importance-factor up to 'very'."  
  
"This is Wesley Wyndam-Price," Angel stated, motioning to the Englishman, who nodded respectfully. "And this an old friend of mine, Harriet Doyle."  
  
'An old friend, Wesley considered. 'That usually has some interesting connotations. So which is it? Demon, witch, hapless, rescued victim?'  
  
Then, as an afterthought: "Do you still go by ... uh, Doyle's name? I mean, after the divorce and ... " Angel cast his eyes downward, awkward.  
  
Harry's features turned gentle. "It's okay, Angel," she murmured, resting a compassionate hand on his forearm. "You can say his name. And yes, I kept it. It felt like ... the right thing to do."  
  
The vampire swallowed forcefully, wondering where that lump in his throat had come from, desperately trying to avoid the empathetic eyes that searched his face. They were so full of pain, but also a serene acceptance, understanding. She still missed him, knew Angel had missed him; a long moment passed as they stood together, bonded by the love and grief they shared over a certain Irish half-demon.  
  
Wesley watched, curious. He hadn't seen much of this Doyle character; been allowed a brief introduction after he'd been herded into the Hyperion by Angel, a quick hello and friendly nod. He'd seemed like just another weary, battle-ravaged Warrior; the scent of death (and what Wesley suspected to be a fine brand of Irish whiskey) clinging his rangy form, haunted, steel blue gaze and lopsided smile. Obviously, there was more than meets the eye, judging by Angel and this young woman's, reaction to his mention.  
  
Angel had recovered quickly, and managed to sputter, "There's something I need to tell you-", before Harry interrupted, motioning outside. "Can you help me bring the stuff in from the car?"  
  
Angel was dumbstruck. "From the car?"  
  
Harry paused in removing her knapsack. "I want to help, Angel. I don't know what's happening, but I want to help you stop it. If ... if Francis isn't here, it's the least I can do." She deposited her book bag on the floor. "You could always use an ethnodemonologist, I'm sure."  
  
Angel paused again, touched by her generosity, before realizing the gravity of the situation and the not-so-dead ex-husband upstairs. "About what I had to tell you-" he continued, stumbling over the words in his rush.  
  
Just then, a disembodied Irish brogue floated down the stairs. "Hey Angel, man ... where do ya keep the towels?"  
  
The vampire glanced up to the top of the stairs, where the speaker attached to that voice stood. Doyle had discarded his leather jacket, and managed to wipe some of the grime off his face, but still looked worse for wear in his soot-matted sweater and blood-soaked jeans. The half-demon was about to inquire about soap too, but the words died on his lips after noticing the feminine figure standing in the Hyperion's lobby.  
  
There was a strangled grasp next to Angel. He turned sharply to witness Harry, face ashen and trembling, almost collapse to her knees. "Francis ..." she whispered weakly. "I ... how? Angel, is it really him?"  
  
The Warrior grinned widely, the first genuine one Wesley had seen touch his lips in weeks. He reached out and carefully placed his hands on her upper arms, supporting the swooning woman. "They brought him back, Harry."  
  
Tears coursed down her white face, unchecked; her hand had flown up to her mouth in complete astonishment. "Oh God, Francis ... I can't ... you're alive?" she sobbed, shuttering with each frantic cry.  
  
Angel idly wondered how much longer Harry could stay on her feet; he didn't need an answer to that query, however, because Doyle had already stampeded down the stairs and was gathering his ex-wife into a passionate, crushing embrace.  
  
They clung to each other desperately; Harry still weeping audibly, and Doyle caressing her shaking back with comforting hands. His face was buried in her long curls, his whispered words of assurance audible to Angel alone ... "It's alright, it's alright. I'm alive, darlin' ... I'm not leavin' again."  
  
Feeling like intruders on a very private moment, the Warrior and the Ex- Watcher stepped back, convening near the front desk to watch the former couple's reunion. "So that's Doyle's ex-wife?" Wesley inquired quietly.  
  
Angel nodded in affirmation, the same infectious grin plastered on his usually serious features. He continued observing the two as her crying subsided and Doyle finally pulled away to plant a tender kiss on her forehead. Angel wasn't surprised to see the moisture of tears in his friend's eyes.  
  
If it wasn't for the gift of highly attuned vampire hearing, he wouldn't of heard Wesley at all.  
  
"Lucky man."  
  
***********************  
  
Now with these hands,  
  
with these hands,  
  
with these hands,  
  
I pray lord  
  
With these hands,  
  
with these hands,  
  
I pray for the strength, Lord  
  
With these hands,  
  
with these hands,  
  
I pray for the faith, Lord  
  
We pray for your love, Lord  
  
We pray for the lost, Lord  
  
We pray for this world, Lord  
  
We pray for the strength, Lord  
  
We pray for the strength, Lord  
  
Come on  
  
Come on  
  
Come on, rise up  
  
Come on, rise up.  
  
  
  
A/N: I know this took SOOOO long to be published, but I'm really proud of it, and I wanted it to be perfect. I don't like the ending, but . oh well! Next chapter . the reunion of Cordelia and Doyle, and the rest of A.I meets Angel's former Seer! 


	5. Chapter Five

DISCLAIMER: I still don't own them . blah, blah, blah . thanks so much for all the feedback; especially concerning my request for favorite couplings. So far the results have been very interesting; I've been giving lots of thought to whom should end up with whom. But then again, my muse is often fickle . apparently a lot of people out there like B/A, and I tend to agree with them, given my intense hatred for C/A . so keep submitting those reviews and telling me who belongs together!!!! A little note to one concerned reviewer . I'm not going to change the way I want to write the story, the feedback just helps to offer some different perspectives. Okay, just for a little update, Whistler, Doyle and Harry are back . Whistler still has yet to make his presence known, but everyone's favorite half- demon and his ex-wife have now sent up shop at A.I. So far only Wesley has met the two new additions, but in the next chapter, you can expect appearances from Lorne, Gunn, Fred, Connor aaaand . Cordelia! Let the melodrama begin! Oh, the quote's from 'Going Home' by Good Charlotte, the song's 'Sell My Clothes, I'm Off To Heaven' by Saves the Day. Cheers!  
  
**************  
  
If I could only see you now for about an hour  
  
maybe just a minute  
  
just to ask  
  
What has he got that I don't have?  
  
Is it his brown eyes?  
  
I know blue eyes get boring but I'll wear dark glasses all the time and  
  
hey if you want me to, I'll take a knife to my own bright eyes.  
  
If I could only see you now for about an hour  
  
maybe just a minute  
  
just to ask  
  
what has he got that I don't have?  
  
Is it his brown eyes?  
  
Well, I'll give you a thousand reasons that tonight  
  
you should grant me this one wish.  
  
Like the one year of my life that I gave to you and  
  
now you put me through hell.  
  
You break me up. -Saves The Day  
  
"I wanna be back in LA\Let's not start again \I wanna be back with my friends \Seems like eternity \Going home." -Good Charlotte  
  
Home.  
  
Doyle mused over this seemingly abstract idea as he trailed one hand over the steam-clouded bathroom mirror. He scrubbed at the fogged glass with his palm, managing to clear a tiny corner for his reflection; a short, wiry Irishman with a mop of haphazard black hair and a nasty-looking scar stared back.  
  
The half-demon stuck out his tongue at the pale stranger, rubbed his clean- shaven face experimentally. His white skin was scoured of grime, dirt, crusted blood of old wounds . he hadn't felt this clean in a long time. Hadn't had a proper bath in, well . three years.  
  
The angular visage in the mirror turned solemn again; the blue eyes clouded. Doyle began to brush his teeth vigorously, adjusting the fluffy white towel around his thin midsection.  
  
(-Harry's right . I look like a stick. I guess food wasn't exactly choice in Alterna-Los Angeles, what with all the rampaging demons and such-)  
  
He replaced his new toothbrush in the cabinet and attacked his mess of raven hair with another luxuriously-soft towel. The Irishman ambled into the adjoining bedroom, still giving his dark locks a hearty drying. Angel had generously offered one of the Hyperion's many rooms to his former Messenger . Doyle had selected a spacious corner bedroom, done in different shades of blue and complete with large bay windows overlooking a park. Well, what used to be a park. Now all the half-demon could see was melted heaps of playground equipment and charred vegetation. It would only be a matter of time before the hotel suffered the same fate.  
  
(-Yeah . home.-)  
  
Doyle slipped into a clean T-shirt and jeans, both courtesy of Wesley Wynham-Price. He felt . good. Still a tad confused and slightly nervous, what with the rest of the Fang Gang probably waiting downstairs for his dramatic entrance. The British ex-Watcher seemed like a decent fellow, even if he had the demeanor of an icicle . Angel was the same old broody vampire . and Harry, well . she was still as beautiful as ever.  
  
They'd said Lorne, Gunn and Fred, the rest of the A.I team, were going to be back soon. 'Guess Angel started some kinda gender-ambiguous name trend,' the half-demon thought smugly, lacing his boots. All these new people . then there was that Connor fellow, whose name brought so much grief to the vampire's already-grave features.  
  
A sudden barrage of images invaded Doyle's psyche. It was completely different from the visions he'd suffered as Angel's Seer; those were a violent assault on his senses, accompanied by that trademark blinding pain. This was like someone had gently diverted the ebb and flow of sensory input to his brain; his entire consciousness had just been re-rooted. It wasn't a flash of the future or an impression of some distant danger, it was more of a knowing. Images of Angel, with a very-pregnant Darla, the female vampire's alley-way death, a tiny baby cradled by Cordelia, a prophecy, some bearded man (-Holtz? His name is Holtz-) leaping into a portal with the same child, Angel banished to the depths of the ocean, Cordelia and a young man kissing as fire rained down on L.A.  
  
And then Doyle knew everything . the love, the betrayal, the lies .  
  
(-I love you, Connor. Now get out of my house.-)  
  
The half-demon sighed deeply, contemplating the visions he'd just witnessed. It was more complicated than he'd thought, this little family. 'What have yea gotten yourself into, Princess?' he wondered sadly.  
  
She had been in love with Angel, that much was certain, but that love had waned when . the half-demon squinted as another series of pictures sifted through his brain. Doyle likened them to "home movies", complete with the grainy, shuttering frames and jumpy visuals, but these images felt textured almost, with snippets of dialogue, smells, tastes, emotions .  
  
Cordelia became a Higher Being.  
  
The Irishman almost laughed. A goddess with a penchant for Gucci shoes and mochaccinos? It kinda made sense, in that weird PTB way, like the Gateway to Lost Souls under the post office . a small chill ran down the half- demon's spine; he was overwhelmed by a cool sense of déjà vu. Something urgent, essential about this fact. Doyle needed to see her, talk to her, but about more than just Champion business.  
  
He missed Cordelia.  
  
So much, in fact, that his heart tightened with a dull, penetrating pain at the mere thought of her. That her graceful footsteps had haunted these halls, her spirited voice had echoes through these rooms. It killed Doyle to be in this place that reeked of her . from the imitation gourmet pasta in the kitchen, to the pair of strappy black heels lying haphazard on Angel's bedroom floor. It had been easier in the other Los Angeles; there'd been no reminders of what had been lost. It was simple to push thoughts and memories and sentiments to the back of your mind. To lose yourself in slaying demons, in fighting for survival. To forget. Now there were ghosts of his long-lost love everywhere the Irishman looked . but she was nowhere to be found.  
  
Angel had vaguely mentioned that she was saying at Connor's loft for the time being, a fact that no doubt struck the vampire deeply and painfully. After he'd witnessed Cordelia and his son together, the Warrior had fled. Angel had gotten no word of them since. Doyle toyed with the idea of searching the vampire's offspring and the Seer, but pushed that thought aside rapidly. Work needed to be done; there was no time to mope about a former crush. They'd show up in good time, along with all the others.  
  
(-Many will be drawn there . Champions of the Higher Powers, whether they are willing to accept this fate or not. You will be one, Allen Francis Doyle.-)  
  
The former Messenger rose from his bed, a grin lighting up his boyish features at the memory. It was fading now, turning hazy, as he presumed all the recollections of his audience with the PTBs would become. There were some things mortals weren't meant to see, or remember for that matter, and Doyle knew a big ole mental snapshot of the People Upstairs was one of those.  
  
There was a light knock on the door. Harry poked her head in, smiling softly at her ex-husband. "The others are back, Francis," she reported pleasantly. "They're anxious to meet you."  
  
The Irishman nodded in confirmation. "'Suppose the resurrected dead guy's a bit of a novelty, yea?" he cracked jokingly. Harry shot her former spouse a withering look and followed him out the door.  
  
*********************  
  
A/N: Okay, this is the first part of the next chapter I was working on, but I decided to post this away . the next part will be up pretty soon, with Lorne, Gunn, Fred et al. Bring a little sunshine into my life and review please! ( 


	6. Chapter Six

DISCLAIMER: Still don't own them, you can sue me if you want, but all you'll get is my CD collection and thirty bucks. Well, just a quick recap, Doyle and Harry are chillin' at A.I, Wesley's already met the former Messenger, but there's still a boatload of people waiting to make his acquaintance. This chapter, everyone's favorite Irishman meets Gunn, Fred, Lorne and perhaps even Cordy! Remember to keep writing those reviews to tell me your favorite couples! Send me feedback or I will cry! The song's 'Bulletproof' by Blue Rodeo and the quote's from 'Bells For Her' by Tori Amos. Cheers!   
  
Tell me one more time again,  
  
just like I didn't hear you,  
  
Like I don't know what's goin' through your mind,  
  
I do.  
  
I played the same game too.  
  
I know it's hard to stop,  
  
even when you want to.  
  
Now the moon lights up your face.  
  
I can see you're cryin',  
  
You never liked me to see you cry it's true.  
  
I've done some cryin' too.  
  
Know the hardest part about it's  
  
tryin' to hide it from you.  
  
Well it would be great to be so strong.  
  
Never needed anybody else to get along.  
  
But we're so scared of the silence,  
  
and the tricks that we use.  
  
Oh we're careful and we're cunning,  
  
but we're easily bruised.  
  
I don't want to lie about it,  
  
I'm not bulletproof  
  
Well I've finally found a way,  
  
to hide from all your glances.  
  
'Till the waiting game we play is through.  
  
I can't.. what's the use?  
  
When all I really want to do is hide out with you.  
  
***************  
  
"Can't stop what's coming,  
  
can't stop what is on it's way."  
  
**************  
  
"So this be dead boy number two?"  
  
Charles Gunn shot a cool, appraising look at Doyle. The demon hunter leaned back against the counter, his handsome features etched with arrogance. He crossed his arms across a broad, well-muscled chest, lifting an eyebrow incredulously. "You the broodin' type? 'Cause we don't need one more o' those skulking 'round the office."  
  
The half-demon laughed sheepishly. He liked this kid already. Cocky bastard, sure, but there was lots of fire in 'im. "Nah man, my broodin' quotient ain't nuthin' compared ta Angel's." He offered his hand. "Name's Allen Doyle, but I usually jus' go by tha last part."  
  
Gunn returned the hearty shake. "Charles Gunn. Got that hip, singular-name thing goin' on too, so don't be tryin' to call me Charlie or nothin'."  
  
Doyle studied the well-bandaged gash on the fighter's forehead, the sorry, soot-covered state of his once-vibrant garments. He'd obviously just returned from patrolling L.A's devastated streets, and seemed to have found a brawl on his way. "Wouldn't dream of it, friend," the Irishman affirmed affably, turning to Gunn's lovely companion, who was currently speaking to Angel.  
  
She was thin, her frame almost boyish in its' gauntness, with slender, lily- white arms that moved with a life of their own. In conversation they fluttered, danced; possessed some nervous, awkward language. The girl spoke like million theories lay dormant in her mind, itching to be borne from her tongue and find life in words, phrases. Like every breath should be dedicated to the enlightenment of the masses, the exchange of ideas. Her wisdom was rapid, breathless, and her hands flapped as she desperately tried to reveal the beauty and brilliance of the world.  
  
Angel quieted the rambling young woman with a light touch on the shoulder. "Fred," he announced in that calm, collected tone of his. "This is Allen Francis Doyle. He used to work for me, until he-"  
  
"Died," the half-demon supplied helpfully, ignoring the shocked looks from both parties. "Pleased to make your acquaintance." He grasped the hand of a still-dazed Fred.  
  
"Winifred Burkle . but you don't look so dead," she sputtered, her freckled nose crinkling in bewilderment. "Are you a vampire like Angel? 'Cause we're fine with that, if you are. I mean, Cordy's a half-demon now, and Lorne's green, so we're kinda used to it." She self-consciously tucked a piece of wavy brown hair behind one ear.  
  
"I'm actually half-demon, like Cor," Doyle admonished, plunging his hands deep into his jeans' pockets. After three years of battling the forces of evil, often calling on his demon heritage to survive, the Irishman had accepted the merits of his other half, but still hadn't managed to accept its' existence. "An' about three years ago, I got killed in tha line a' duty."  
  
Fred gazed up at him. "Didja go to Heaven?"  
  
Her innocent question caught the former Seer off-guard. Earlier, Angel had skirted around the query, alluded to the fact that he wanted to know; he expected to know eventually, when his resurrected Messenger was ready to tell. The vampire had realized that a trip to Heaven usually didn't result in improved battle skills and vicious scars.  
  
Doyle coughed apprehensively. He shot a slightly panicked look at Angel. "I, um . not exactly, sweetheart." His audience of three drew closer, curiosity, and sympathy, evident in their faces. The Irishman sighed, and with a nervous gulp, began his narrative. "About four or five years ago, a vengeance demon by the name of Anyanka came to Cordelia back in Sunnydale. 'Parently, some idjit named Xander had just broken her heart-" Angel betrayed a smile at the half-demon seething distaste for Xander's name. "- by cheatin' on her wit' another one of the Scoobies. Cordy happened ta be gripin' about how if everyone's favourite Slayer had never showed up on the Hellmouth, her life wouldn't be such a mess. The vengeance demon heard this li'l tangent, and voila . Cor got her wish. She created an entire alternate dimension sans Buffy. Well the whole lot of 'em ended up dying; Angel, Willow, Xander, Cordelia, the Slayer. Death an' mayhem an' chaos reigned, blah, blah, blah . without tha Slayer around ta keep the balance, things were real bad. Demons ran rampant in Sunnydale, and the situation wasn't much better anywhere else, since the Master was still alive an' kickin'."  
  
"But this other dimension," Angel interrupted. "The alternate Giles and his group destroyed it. They set it right."  
  
"Ah," the half-demon countered wryly, raising a finger in exclamation. "They did manage ta 're-install' this dimension . well obviously, since you're all here . but what if the other Wishverse stuck around too? There's millions of alternate worlds; planes of existence are poppin' up every day. The vamp version of that witch, Willow managed ta cross over once."  
  
"And so did you," Fred added, fidgeting with her glasses. "But why didn't you go to some happy place? Why didn't the Powers That Be let you . rest?"  
  
Doyle shrugged. His features turned cold, impassive, like stone. Angel could see an emotional blockade go up as the embittered, warrior side of the half-demon returned. Every ounce of good humour disappeared; this Doyle was sharp, cynical. "I don't know," he muttered venomously. "Maybe my violent, painful death wasn't enough atonement for tha PTBs. Maybe they thought three years a' hell would do it."  
  
His caustic tirade was cut short by the entrance of Lorne, with Harry and Wesley trailing close behind. The flamboyant green demon strode up to the group, searching the faces of the four, grave-looking individuals. "Where's this miraculously resurrected half-demon anyway?" he inquired. The Host then took notice of a pale stranger, with suspicious blue eyes and a nasty facial scar. "Well you don't smell human," he added jovially, extending one green-skinned hand. "So I'm guessing you're our man."  
  
The Irishman accepted the greeting with suspicion, immediately defensive from the mention of his other, admittedly darker, side. "Doyle." He was gruff, frowning.  
  
"Lorne. My, aren't you a ray of sunshine?" The Host pronounced teasingly, ambling over to his makeshift bar. "I think this boy needs a drink."  
  
The Irishman brightened considerably, though he still wore his mistrust like a proud banner. "Ya getttin' my attention now," he growled, following Lorne to the alcohol supply. "Haven't touched a good Scotch in days."  
  
"Well that's just a sin!" the other demon exclaimed, offering a glass of the amber liquid to Doyle. "It's gonna have to be dry, honey ... ice cubes haven't really been a priority around here lately."  
  
The former Seer mumbled a grateful thanks, and slung back the liquor. Angel, meanwhile, was querying Harry and Wesley. "Have you found anything yet? Any new translations? "  
  
Wesley shook his head. "Nothing we haven't already touched upon. A couple cryptic prophecies, Cordelia's visions, notes on the Beast's recent attacks and a plethora of so-called "signs"."  
  
"Signs?" the vampire questioned as Gunn and Fred joined the group. "What do you mean signs?"  
  
"Like the plagues almost," Harry interjected. "Drought, locusts, or in our case, rats, dead birds and rain of fire. They're generally warnings, from the gods some like to think, of imminent doom and chaos. The balance has been thrown off, something's tipped the equilibrium, hence the kamikaze sparrows, etc."  
  
"What's this all mean?" Angel demanded.  
  
Harry and Wesley exchanged an uneasy glance. Already the vampire could see their minds processing furiously together, a singular unit of demonic lore, linked by a love of knowledge and archaic mysteries, a special secret shared over musty texts and ancient scrolls. "It's the end of the world, Angel," Harry replied softly, wringing her hands. "And if we don't find something soon, hiding under our beds is going to be the best alternative."  
  
"There's gotta be sumthin'!" Doyle protested, approaching the throng with Lorne in tow. "The People Upstairs didn't bring me back just fer kicks ... we're supposed ta be fighin'. Save the world and the whole bit."  
  
The enthnodemonologist sighed deeply, massaging her temples. "How Francis? We have been going through every single text known to man that references The Beast and there's nothing. Angel and the rest of his team got their collective asses kicked last time they faced it. How can we fight when we don't even know what it is or how to stop it?"  
  
The Irishman commenced a passionate retort, but suddenly his words trailed off and his gaze drifted upwards, above all their heads, to some distant horizon. He seemed to have completely forgotten the existence of his companions, or paid them no heed at least. The half-demon frowned inwardly, as if puzzling over a particularly complex problem, his eyes still trained on some invisible spectacle.  
  
The rest all turned, mimicking Doyle, but could spot nothing that deserved such unrequited attention. Angel's former Seer was staring blankly at one of the Hyperion's walls. "What's he lookin' at?" Gunn muttered.  
  
But Doyle wasn't looking at anything.  
  
He was remembering.  
  
(-Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world-)  
  
'They're all comin',' the former Seer thought feverishly. 'A gatherin'. A multitude shall be drawn, Champions of Good, ta restore the balance and slay the Beast. Brought forth from tha Hellmouth to tha City o' Angels, they will come. We might be goin' ta Hell ina hand basket, but we're gonna go down fightin'.'  
  
(-The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere the ceremony of innocence is drowned-)  
  
'Some will die, Allen Francis, and many will suffer. There will be sacrifice and terrible pain in store for each, but it is of no consequence; the battle will rage on. For good or evil, the new world will be baptized in blood ...'  
  
"The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity," the half-demon murmured brokenly, unaware that the words had even left his mouth. He blinked rapidly, conscious of his surroundings once more.  
  
"Francis!" Harry roared, gripping her momentarily-stunned ex-husband by the shoulders. "What the hell was that? You completely spaced out on us there!"  
  
A look of sheer panic crossed Doyle's ashen face. "I ... I don't know," he stammered helplessly. His head whipped from side to side, breath coming in short, heaving gasps. "I saw ... dear God ... so much blood ... they're comin', they're comin' ..." The Irishman keeled over in a dead faint, saved from a rough landing by the strong arms of Angel and Gunn.  
  
Fred, Harry and Lorne scrambled to the fallen half-demon. His wiry chest was rising and sinking with breath, Angel could feel the weak but rhythmic thump of his pulse, but his cheeks had taken on a bright red flush and perspiration poured down the Irishman's feverish face. He twitched every so often, limbs seized by some kind of spastic force, the young man's inert form shuddering with a life of its' own. The Irishman continued his inane babble, muttering restlessly about "a gathering" and "the chosen", interspersed with distraught Gaelic utterings.  
  
Harry placed on gentle hand on Doyle's forehead, brushed back the sweat- soaked raven hair. The enthnodemonologist pulled her hand back abruptly, as if burned. Her pretty features were etched with alarm as she regarded her feverish ex-husband. "He's burning up," she announced. "We need to get him into bed right now. Angel, Gunn, get him upstairs ... Wesley, Fred, grab some washcloths, blankets ... Lorne, you're with me. We hit the books, see if this is a Bracken thing or a Powers That Be thing ... and if it's the latter, some higher being is gonna get it right in their godly, omnipotent groin."  
  
The vampire had already proceeded to gather the lifeless half-demon in his arms and with Gunn's help, was carrying the frail figure up to his bedroom. Fred and Wesley has scattered quickly, gathering said-objects, along with water, juice, and painkillers.  
  
Harry exhaled a shaky breath. After losing Francis the first time ... this would be too much. To be tempted, reminded once again of what she couldn't have and what she lost, of the man who was so rudely ripped from her world ...  
  
(-What the hell kind of cosmic joke is this?!-)  
  
"Angel!"  
  
The Warrior turned, still cradling Doyle like a helpless child. "Just stay with him," Harry pleaded, despondent. "That's all we can do for now."  
  
He nodded wordlessly, tightened his grip on the former Messenger and continued up the stairs, with Gunn in tow.  
  
"So what's your expert demonologist opinion?" Lorne inquired, heading over to Angel's extensive library. He skimmed the bindings, selected a few texts dealing with demon biology and made himself comfortable at the table.  
  
Harry joined him. "I don't know, Lorne," she whispered, head in her hands. "It could be anything. Sickness, injuries we didn't catch, shock from all the dimension-hopping. It's just ..."  
  
The Host sighed deeply, squeezing her arm reassuringly. "I know," he said, attempting to sooth, to comfort. (-We're in this together, sweetheart ... all of us. There's our silver lining, as hard as it may be to find.-) "I'm scared too."  
  
They looked at each other for a long moment, bonded by exhaustion, sheer terror and a tiny glimmer of hope. Each one understand their lot in life, accepted the hand they had been dealt; hardened, crusty veterans of an ancient war. Either way, they were going to make a difference, and that offered a little bit of solace. Their silent moment was interrupted, however, by the crashing, frantic arrival of two forgotten figures.  
  
Cordelia and Connor stood at the threshold of the Hyperion, soot-covered and breathless. The boy looked uneasy, apprehensive, glancing up at his surroundings, but Cordelia rushed into the lobby, scanning the entire hotel for ... something.  
  
"Where is he?" she demanded to a rapidly-approaching Harry and Lorne, not seeming to register that the former Mrs. Francis Doyle was back in Angel's hotel. The enthnodemonlogist and the Host swapped a perplexed look, then turned back Cordelia, who was flushed with excitement.  
  
"Where is he? Where's Doyle?"  
  
*********************  
  
Well it would be great to be so strong.  
  
Never needed anybody's help to get along.  
  
But we're so scared of the silence,  
  
and the language that we use.  
  
Oh we're careful and we're cunning,  
  
but we're easily bruised.  
  
I don't want to kid about it,  
  
I'm not bulletproof  
  
Tell me one more time again,  
  
well I guess I didn't hear you. And I don't know all the secrets that you keep inside. I've tried the same thing too,  
  
but they all come pouring out of me when I'm talking to you.  
  
Well it would be great to be so strong.  
  
Never needed anybody else's help to carry on.  
  
Well I'm not waking up each morning,  
  
with forgiveness I can use,  
  
No I'm careless and I'm cruel  
  
But I'm still easily bruised. But I'm so tired of lying about it,  
  
I'm not bulletproof  
  
Oh and I'm not gonna lie about it,  
  
I'm not bulletproof. 


	7. Chapter Seven

**IMPORTANT TO READ** ... DISCLAIMER: Okay, so I guess the new Angel episodes have started to come out, but since I am horribly appalled with the direction this season has taken, I refuse to watch the degradation of my once-favourite show. If you go to TVTome.com, you'll find synopses for the next six or so upcoming episodes, and you don't even WANT to know what's going to happen ... that said, this fanfic diverged from canon at 'Rain of Fire', and will probably in no way reference the rest of Angel's season. I just wanted to warn you that this will take the story in an entirely different direction from the show, so don't be confused if all the awful, ridiculous shite that's going down on Angel is not reflected in this story. Just wait a few months and you'll know exactly what I mean ... argh. Anyway, I'm done my little rant, and for those three or four readers still remaining, onto the fic! So Harry and Doyle have met all the Fang Gang, except Connor, who has just returned with Cordelia. Doyle got all freaky last chapter (something to do with his newly acquired powers), and is currently passed out and feverish. Thus, enter the Seer and the demon spawn (and let me note my agreement with the 'ick!' factor of Cordy and Connor's relationship). The first song's 'Yer Possessed' by Gord Downie (and for some reason, those lyrics reminded me of Doyle so much!), the second's by the Odds, the third's a line from 'Cordelia' by the Tragically Hip, and the last one's 'Beautiful Goodbye' by Amanda Marshall. (Okay, I know I get a little heavy on the song lyrics and quotes sometimes, but I really think they add to the story. Give me that, eh? I like my Canadian music!) Cheers!  
  
******************  
  
It was the look in your eyes, you said,  
  
"No one's going to hurt me like you did."  
  
Rolling over it a thousand times  
  
in the narrow flume of my mind.  
  
O what I'd give for just one small caress.  
  
It was the look in your eyes  
  
when you said something like  
  
"Yer possessed."  
  
You're possessed.  
  
-Gord Downie  
  
  
  
But pain can look cool  
  
When it's at it's best  
  
And the best things in life  
  
Don't make any sense  
  
And all that I know  
  
Is every day I know less  
  
And the best things in life  
  
Don't make any sense  
  
-The Odds  
  
  
  
"It takes all your power to prove that you don't care,  
  
I'm not Cordelia, I will not be there."  
  
-The Hip  
  
********************  
  
Fed up with my destiny  
  
And this place of no return  
  
Think I'll take another day  
  
And slowly watch it burn  
  
  
  
It doesn't really matter  
  
How the time goes by  
  
'Cause I still remember you and I  
  
And our beautiful goodbye  
  
  
  
We traveled through these empty streets  
  
Laughing arm in arm  
  
The night had made a mess of me  
  
Your confession kept me warm  
  
  
  
And I don't really miss you  
  
I just need to know  
  
Do you ever think of you and I  
  
And our beautiful goodbye  
  
  
  
If I let you down  
  
Please forgive me now  
  
For that beautiful goodbye.  
  
  
  
****************  
  
"Angel."  
  
The vampire had just retreated from Doyle's room, was closing the door with a soft click. At Cordelia's voice, the Warrior had tensed visibly, his broad back going rigid with anger. He turned with aching slowness to face his Seer. "Cordelia." The name fell heavily from his lips, clumsy and awkward and cold in the silence.  
  
She stepped forward, reaching out to him, but the vampire drew back into the shadows, his eyes blazing with hurt. "He's in there." Angel's voice was like ice, fighting desperately to keep the spiteful edge from his tone. 'This isn't the time,' the vampire scolded himself. 'Not with your resurrected best friend in that bedroom. He's back and that's what matters. Not Cordelia and Connor. Not your son and the woman you love--'  
  
"Where did you find him?" she demanded, laying a gentle hand on the Warrior's forearm. To Angel, that touched burned right to his soul. "Is Doyle alright? Is he still passed out?"  
  
"Go see for yourself."  
  
Cordelia frowned quizzically at the vampire's uncharacteristic coldness, visibly confused and slightly hurt. She made a mental note to talk to him later, shame churning deep in her stomach. Images of a skinny, young boy, pale and sweating in the fire's gleam, flashed through her guilt-ridden mind. He would never have to find out, and they could continue ...  
  
(-Continue what? What did you have before to continue? You slept with his son, sister ... and now, Doyle's back ... I'd say you're in trouble, sweetheart-)  
  
"Thank you, Angel," she murmured, slipping past him and into Doyle's new bedroom. The vampire watched her retreating back with a measure of longing, suddenly feeling very cold and very alone.  
  
*************  
  
  
  
Cordelia took a careful seat on the edge of the half-demon's bed, studying the sinewy, comatose figure. Doyle's dark locks were longer, the thick, spiky tangles sticking up haphazardly from the crown of his head; a long, straight scar marred the left side of his face. Beads of sweat left glistening trails down the Irishman's now-decidedly pallid features; blue eyes closed fast against the world and even brow pulled together in apparent distress. The Seer reached out one trembling hand towards the inert young man, tentative, nervous; caressed one smooth cheek experimentally, relishing the warmth, the realness, of his flushed skin under her fingers.  
  
(-Oh God ... he's alive.-)  
  
A violent half sob, half smile escaped her lips, a wide grin stretching over her features while tears spilled down her cheeks. Until that moment, Cordelia had not quite allowed herself to believe. Her visions were painful, yeah, and constantly filled with immanent doom and chaos, but they were never wrong. And when that head-splitting image of the late Irishman (New Doyle, she liked to think of him) had invaded her psyche, she knew it was true, believed in his resurrection with every ounce of faith left in her battered body. But still ... there was that gnawing doubt, the tiniest of fears that it would all be wrong. Permitting herself to believe meant wearing her poor, bruised heart on her sleeve, taking the chance that she might just have to mourn him all over again.  
  
But Doyle felt so ... real. His filthy hair and his sallow face and his tangible smell of whiskey and smoke and pine trees ... Overcome, Cordelia shuttered with quivering cries, her entire body trembling uncontrollably. She was numb; her mind white and blank and stuck in this beautiful moment.  
  
(-It's you ... it's you and you're here with me again.-)  
  
Laughter erupted through her weeping, her heart leaping violently into her throat. There was a deep swelling of joy in her soul; the cool, cleansing feeling of elation flowing through every pore, every dark thought and bad day.  
  
... There's definitely more to Doyle than meets the eye ...  
  
.... Nice guys don't always finish last ...  
  
... Is that it? Am I done? ...  
  
"I missed you," Cordelia whispered quietly, picking up one limp hand with both of her's, lovingly tracing the lines and creases of his palm. Running light fingers over his bruised knuckles, the Seer smiled, then spoke again. "If you weren't so damn unconscious I would totally slap you right now for getting yourself killed like that. I mean, what were you thinking? Leaving the fate of the world up to a bratty, wannabe actress and the former Scourge of Europe. We needed you so much ... and you left us." Cordelia laced her fingers through his. "It was so hard at first, for both of us. I was dealing with that mind-numbing inheritance of yours', and Angel skulked around way more than usual. It just ... it didn't feel right without you there. But I guess your logic wasn't completely wacko, 'cause things got better. Plus, the whole being the Promised One and sacrificing yourself and saving hundreds of lives thing."  
  
Her features softened as she gazed at the half-demon. "I'm so proud of you, Doyle. What you did for us, for the Listers ... you were so brave. And note the lack of shock in my voice, huh? I knew, I always knew, and I'm sorry I didn't bother telling you when you were ... alive. I mean, you did dress in the Salvation Army's latest, and you drank way too much and your lifestyle wasn't exactly conductive towards, well, staying alive ... but you were so sweet and you noticed my new shoes and you actually managed to get Angel out of his Batcave ... I loved your eyes when you smiled, how you knew exactly what to say to our boss when he was upset ... and you knew me. I mean really knew me. Not many people had bothered, up to that point." She exhaled again, slowly, squeezing his clammy hand. "You're a good man, Allen Francis Doyle ... a good half-man. Whatever you are, it's all good and I missed every part of it."  
  
"Ya flatter me too much, Princess."  
  
Cordelia's head snapped up abruptly, her mouth a wide 'O' of surprise. One clear blue, squinted eye stared back at her. "Doyle ..." she breathed, eyes glistening with tears.  
  
The Irishman sat up, resting against the headboard and clasped her hand in his. Raising it to his mouth, he lightly brushed the knuckles with his lips, then planted a loving kiss on the soft flesh of her palm. "Hey darlin'," he murmured, flashing a lopsided grin.  
  
"Doyle," the young Seer whispered again, the almost-tangible specter of longing and disbelief still hanging between them. Then, without another moment of hesitation, Cordelia closed the distance between them, gathering the half-demon in a crushing embrace.  
  
He clung to her, hands at the cool skin of her neck and snaking around her slender waist, relishing her familiar scent, her warm presence. "Oh Cor," he sighed, still enamored by her loveliness. Her hair was much shorter and straighter, a couple shades lighter, but that was far from the most drastic change. Angel's current Seer looked so much older, wiser, a few more lines creasing her luminous face.  
  
Suddenly, Cordelia pulled back from their tight hug. "Wait a minute," she announced suspiciously. "You were just pretending to be comatose? You heard everything I said?"  
  
"Well, I didn't want ta spoil the moment," Doyle responded teasingly.  
  
She made a great show of rolling her eyes, swatting playfully at her resurrected friend. "I should of figured you'd be as annoying as you used to be," Cordelia joked, though adoration shone brightly in her eyes. They slipped easily and immediately back into their bickering roles, slinging witty barbs at each other, but this time their banter was lighter, more affectionate, laced with a careful consideration and tenderness.  
  
Their laughter trailed off into a comfortable silence as the former associates gazed at each other thoughtfully. Cordelia took hold of his hand again, breaking the moment of quiet. "I just can't believe that you're here," she admitted, flashing her 100-watt smile. "And you feel okay? It looks like your fever broke."  
  
Doyle looked up from his observance of their clasped hands, realization dawning on his face. She didn't smell right. Not in a bad, few-days-behind- in-showering way, but there was something was ... different about her essence, something that kicked his demon senses into high gear. Before his ... death (and the former Seer still shivered when that thought crossed his mind), Cordelia had left behind a fresh, clean air of sunshine and laundry detergent and oranges. Now, she carried a scent suspiciously akin to ... patchouli?  
  
"What is it, Doyle?" the young woman demanded, noticing the grave look shadowing the half-demon's face. "What's wrong?"  
  
"Sumthin's different," he responded, wide-eyed. "You're different. Not quite ... normal." The Irishman peered deep into her brown eyes, shocked by the depths he found there. The light and the wisdom and the ... "Power," Doyle announced simply. "Yea smell like power."  
  
"A lot's changed since you gave me those damn visions," Cordelia responded, her voice low. "Hell, everything has."  
  
"Especially you."  
  
The current Seer cocked her head thoughtfully. "You're one to talk! With your whole random comas and miraculous recovery thing! I guess both of us have a lot of catching up to do. God, where to start? First there were the prophecies and then Pylea, that's where we picked up Fred-" Cordelia pitched forward suddenly, straight into Doyle's lap, features twisted into a harsh grimace and hands clutching her throbbing skull, a moan of pain issuing from her lips.  
  
The Irishman had experienced far too many of those head-crushing, mind- numbing visions in his day, but witnessing some else endure that excruciating anguish, especially when he was responsible for said-anguish, was almost as bad. He gathered the girl in his arms, attempting to soothe the shuttering body with caresses and soft hands. "Sssh Princess, it'll all be over soon." And then, an added whisper ...  
  
"I'm so sorry."  
  
Eventually, the trembling stopped and Cordelia sat up cautiously, hair mussed and eyes rimmed with red. Her face had turned an ashen colour; tears had smeared the Seer's perfectly-applied makeup all over the pale skin. "It hurts ... so much now," she groaned weakly. "It didn't before, and ever since the Beast ... they're so bad now. And I saw ... I saw ..."  
  
"What, darlin'?"  
  
Cordelia's haunted, hazel eyes locked with Doyle's. "Faith," she murmured. "I saw Faith. He's going to kill her."  
  
***************  
  
In these days of no regrets  
  
I keep mine to myself  
  
And all the things we never said I can say for someone else  
  
Cause nothing lasts forever, but we always try  
  
And I just can't help but wonder why  
  
We let it pass us by  
  
  
  
When I see you now  
  
I wonder how  
  
I could've watched you walk away  
  
If I let you down  
  
Please forgive me now  
  
For that beautiful goodbye   
  
A/N: Da, da, da!!!! And all my readers breath a sigh of relief at the sign of actually action! Yay! Just wanted to drop you this note to say that I'm going to be posting an offshoot of this story in the Buffy: The Vampire Slayer section of ff.net that will deal with a visit to the Hellmouth from a certain badly-dressed demon (no, not Doyle). So obviously the Scoobies are going to make an appearance here and the small vignette will be from Buffy et al.'s POV. Keep reading & reviewing! 


	8. Chapter Eight BtVS POV

SUMMARY: Buffy and company get an expected visitor with a strange message.  
  
SPOILERS: Some for 'Angel' up to 'Rain of Fire'; I guess the only 'Buffy' spoiler is that all the potential slayers are in Sunnydale and being trained, so up to 'Potential' maybe? It doesn't matter, cuz if you don't watch the shows, you won't have any idea what's going on anyway. ;)  
  
RATING: PG-13  
  
DISCLAIMER: Okay, get ready! This is going to be a big one! My original story, 'Cast In Shadows', is archived in the 'Angel' section of ff.net. Since the Scoobies are going to play a huge part, I thought it would be interesting to do a chapter from their POV, as opposed to Buffy and gang just randomly showing up and being all like, "Whistler sent us." It's sent right after 'Rain of Fire' in the Angelverse, and 'Potential' (I think) in Buffy's world, none of the other crap has happened. Whistler shows up the day after the rain of fire starts in Los Angeles, which (for my purposes) will be conviently timed with the day after Dawn and Xander's conversation. No reappearance of the Initiative, no slaughter of Wolfram & Hart ... Basically, the rain of fire still descends on L.A, Doyle's returned from the dead to help with the fight and Champions of the PTBs are being gathered to the City of Angels for the End of Days. If you want to know exactly what's going on (or what the hell I'm talking about), why Whistler comes to visit, etc., just read the original post; there's about seven chapters already and the next installment will probably be posted soon after this is. Just one final note (don't worry, I'm almost done!), the first quote's from 'Psychopomp' by The Tea Party and the second song is 'The Messenger' by INXS. Cheers!  
  
********************  
  
"I'll give you something more  
  
and you'll fade away  
  
one last kiss before  
  
you fade away  
  
lives you once adored  
  
will fade away  
  
lies you can't ignore  
  
you soon repay  
  
as you fade away"  
  
-The Tea Party  
"Look around  
  
Give your eyes a new adventure  
  
What you see  
  
Is a mix of past and future  
  
Your moment Is coming  
  
Hold on, hold on  
  
How you gonna be when they tell the story  
  
Everything we took  
  
Was it from each other  
  
Hold on, hold on  
  
It's to late to get around it  
  
Say goodbye to how we found it  
  
This is what we least expected  
  
Don't you put the blame on the messenger  
  
I've seen the flames  
  
That lick at survival  
  
Check your dreams  
  
Into the justice hotel  
  
The moment  
  
Is coming  
  
Hold on  
  
Hold on."  
  
-INXS  
  
*******************  
  
The two lithe figures moved in the dance of battle, trading quick blows, fist meeting fist with staggering power. Each circled its' prey with a predator's grace, like a feral jungle cat waiting to strike; weaving through this strangely elegant ritual. Suddenly one lunged, precise, deadly; arms springing forward. The recipient of this attack sidestepped it easily, and with a couple choice hits, managed to grip his opponent by the shoulders and slam her to the ground.  
  
Buffy Summers groaned from her vantage point on the floor, staring up at the moderately smug vampire who loomed over her. "Okay, that's the way not to do it," she sighed, pulling herself off the gym mat and brushing imaginary dirt from her sweatpants. She turned to the tiny throng of young woman clustered at the side of the room. "So, does anyone know where I made my mistake?"  
  
The four potential Slayers gazed at each other with wide eyes, incredulous. Buffy and Spike's sparring was vigorous, skillful and wholly frightening. The girls couldn't even imagine surviving the vampire's first charge, let alone an entire battle.  
  
"You got distracted."  
  
Buffy glanced up the former Key to the Universe, currently embodied in the slim form of the youngest Summers' daughter. Dawn had been lounging on a nearby bench, keeping an observant, yet outwardly indifferent eye on the training. The teenage girl's long, honey brown mane fell loosely around her shoulders and her blue eyes flashed as she sat up, crossing her arms in defiance. Sure, all these girls were the next possible Chosen Ones and needed to be instructed and all, but she was Miss Current-One's little sister and what was she going to do if some icky vamp tried to make her a snack? Why couldn't she join in too? Buffy had taken her out training before the entire 'First' thing started, but since the new Slayers showed up, it had been all "You're too young, Dawn" and "Not now, Dawn". Even Spike was there, but Dawn was still mad at him for ... things. Hurting-Buffy things.  
  
Buffy nodded her blond head in affirmation. "You're right," she agreed, sparing a look at Spike, who was slouching moodily near the door, retrieving his discarded duster. The British vampire didn't miss the slight inflection of tenderness in her voice. "I did."  
  
She turned back to her pupils, ignoring his pleased features and began to pace thoughtfully. "You have to be focused at all times, constantly aware of yourself, your surroundings, your enemy." The Slayer paused by their makeshift weapons table, selecting a small but deadly throwing knife from the lot. "Pay attention to what's going on around you, but keep your concentration on one thing: the fight. And winning it."  
  
On her last word, Buffy spun and released the knife with a forceful fling, sending it sailing through the air at their newly-arrived, yet quietly unannounced visitor. The man, in turn, side-stepped the hurtling weapon with an alarming air of casualty, barely giving the blade a glance as it ricocheted off the wall and clattered to the ground. "Is how you greet all your old friends, Slayer?" he demanded half-mockingly, his voice tinged with a slight Bronx accent.  
  
Buffy gaped at the little man, taking in the ubiquitous fedora, loudly-patterned shirt and brown leisure suit, along with the aura of arcane power and demon-scent. "Whistler?" she stuttered forcefully, winning confused stares from all the Potentials and her little sister.  
  
Spike's features mimicked her own; a look of utter astoundment and slight mystification. The vampire glanced from Buffy to the stranger and back to the Slayer, still bewildered by the air of absolute omnipotence clinging to this figure. "What in God's name is he?" Spike inquired breathlessly, and Dawn was shocked to find blatant, naked fear on that pale face.  
  
"I'm not really sure," Buffy murmured in return, never taking her eyes from the short demon's form.  
  
Whistler chose to ignore all the perplexed stares and muttered questions, striding straight towards the Slayer with hearty confidence. "Long time, no see Blondie," he cracked, sizing Buffy up with those inscrutable grey eyes of his. "You're lookin' good for a resurrected corpse. How many times have you died now? Twice is it?" When said-Chosen One decided to forgo a verbal response and settled on an angry glare, Whistler, shifting uncomfortably, turned to address the rest of the group. "Hey all, I'm Whistler, your friendly, neighbourhood demon," he announced with a sweeping gesture. "I pop in every now and again ... you know, bring cryptic messages from the PTBs, liven things up a little."  
  
Buffy took Dawn's earlier stance, crossing muscular arms and looking very much like her little sister. "In my experience, seeing you is never a good thing," she said, her tone mirroring obvious distrust. "As I remember it, last we saw each other I ended up killing my boyfriend."  
  
Whistler raised an eyebrow knowingly. "And as I remember it, Angel wasn't exactly lookin' too cuddly right then." He took her silence as permission to continue and once more turned to face the rest the others. "Well, ladies and vamp, seems we've got a little problem here. The Big Bad's been stirring up trouble as of late, which I'm sure you've all noticed, and things ain't exactly kosher in L.A either." The demon paused, shooting a sage look at the blond Slayer. "Rain of fire, beasts emerging from the depths of Hell, etc. Not exactly happy fun time. Things are a wee bit out of balance and Evil seems to be winnin' the kickball game."  
  
"Get to the point, Whistler," Buffy growled.  
  
The demon continued. "There's a whole lotta badness runnin' around, courtesy of the First, way more than there should be. The equilibrium's been all thrown off 'cause of 'unforseen circumstances'."  
  
This time Dawn spoke up. "What 'unforseen circumstances'?"  
  
"Well, you for instance," Whistler retorted cheerily. "The Key to the Universe wasn't suppose to end up in some little girl. Your big sister's death is another, same with Will over there goin' all soft."  
  
"I resent that," Spike snapped, his earlier fear forgotten at the little bastard demon's mockery. "And why's any o' this matter to you, anyway?"  
  
"For good to exist in the world, there must be the equal and opposite presence of evil to sustain it, blah, blah, blah," the other demon drawled, adjusting the brim of his jaunty hat. "You know the drill, can't have one without the other. The PTBs sent me to restore that order."  
  
"The PTBs?" Amanda questioned, her brow furrowed in confusion. First finding out that vampires and all those other creepy crawlies exist, then finding out she was meant to slay said-crawlies, and now some short guy with tacky clothes talking about restoring the balance of good and evil?  
  
"The Powers That Be? The People Upstairs? Anyway, the gigantic cosmic 'oops' started with you and Angel's 'tragic love' and all the crap that entailed, then Doyle's premature death, where he passed on his visions to that cute young thing ... Cordelia I think her name is? Then you-", Whistler continued, jabbing an accusing finger at Buffy "-had to go and die on us. Not to mention Dawn and Connor's miraculous conceptions."  
  
"I was a 'cosmic oops'?" Dawn murmured inwardly, just as the Slayer demanded to know who this 'Connor' was. Whistler shot both of them a meaningful look. "You'll meet him soon enough, and believe me, you don't even want to know." He turned towards the younger Summers girl, his ruddy features softening. "You weren't a mistake, sweetie. You were just unexpected, and the PTBs aren't so big on surprises."  
  
"Why are you here?" Spike spoke up from across the room, his voice low and dangerous. He was now draped in his black duster, a permanent frown etched on his attractive features. "Why the lit'le story time?"  
  
The shorter demon didn't even bother acknowledging the vampire's sour presence, jerking his thumb at the Brit but still addressing Buffy and Dawn. "What Billy Idol over there doesn't get is that you're all involved, you're all connected to this. That's why you're goin' on a road trip."  
  
"Road trip?" Buffy exploded, eyes flashing. "We've just spent the past month fighting a primordial evil! The Bringers and The First have been killing all the potential Slayers, if you haven't noticed. We're a little busy on the Hellmouth right now."  
  
Her tangent was cut short by Whistler's rage. He suddenly seemed to draw himself up to full height; his voice took on a steely tone and resolve blazed in his eyes. He was more than a badly-dressed messenger or a low-level demon functionary; the love and loss of a thousand years was reflected in his gaze ... Buffy abruptly realized just how powerful this demon was. "You won't have a Hellmouth to worry about if the world ends. Don't you understand? It's all connected ... the First's sudden reappearance and the current apocalypse in Los Angeles ain't just a coincidence. It's all gonna go down in the City of Angels, and you need to be there for the final battle. Angel needs you there."  
  
The name of Buffy's former love caught everyone's attention; even Spike's bleached head popped up in surprise. The Potentials exchanged confused gazes, more thoroughly confused than ever. "What Angel's got to do with this?" the Slayer demanded, eyes narrowed.  
  
Whistler sighed. "Everything." He stepped towards Buffy, hands out and palms upward, like a peace offering. "If you want to have any sort of chance to stop the First, you have to come to L.A, tonight. Bring the whole Scooby crew with you; your sister, Billy, that stuffy British guy with the pathetic liquor cabinet ... everyone. But leave the pseudo-Slayers to me."  
  
Her brow creased in bafflement. "What are you going to do with them?"  
  
The demon smoothed the creases of his leather jacket. "Put them in a safe place. This isn't their battle ... not yet at least. Get ready to leave, the sooner the better. When you get to Los Angeles, head to the Hyperion Hotel; it's easy to find, big and spooky. Tell Angel I sent you, though he's gonna be a little more than surprised."  
  
Spike joined the conversation again. "The poofster don't know we're comin'?"  
  
"Nope," Whistler grinned, motioning to the Potentials, who reluctantly followed him. "Should be one hell of a party."  
  
"It's alright," Buffy instructed, turning to the girls who were under her care. All of them bore frightened, nervous expressions; Amanda chewed her bottom lip thoughtfully, Molly played with an errant strand of her hair, a high-strung Rona cracked her knuckles. She felt bad for just handing them off to another stranger, but if things were really as desperate as Whistler claimed ... it was better this way. Better they weren't around for it. "Don't worry, you can trust him. He's one of the good guys. Listen to what he says and I'll see you soon, okay?"  
  
They nodded wordlessly, accepting this wild card Fate had thrown at them. As they gloomily paraded out of the room, Kennedy paused and looked back at Buffy. "Tell Willow I'll see her soon?" she called over her shoulder, her features betraying a slight tenderness.  
  
Buffy smiled gently. "I will."  
  
The brunette returned the smile and motioned her head slightly in thanks, following the others outdoors. Whistler moved to follow her, but not before casting a worried glance at the sulking vampire in the corner. "Leave as soon as you can, and bring all the weapons and books you can manage," he instructed, his voice low. Hesitant, the demon paused. "And keep an eye on the Cockney, willya?"  
  
The girl was taken aback by the obvious, if reluctant, concern in Whistler's tone. She felt the creeping suspicion that the little demon knew more than he was letting on. "Whistler?" she demanded, his name almost a plea.  
  
He sighed deeply, shaking his head. "Sorry kiddo. There's some things I don't know and some things you shouldn't. Just get to L.A, tonight; find Angel. I'll be there as soon as I get the Slayerettes to a safe house."  
  
The Slayer nodded slowly, far more demure than when Whistler had first arrived. "Alright." It really meant "I'm trusting you", as hesitant as that trust was, and the demon seemed to recognize that. He favoured her with a lopsided grin and then, with a quick "good luck", hightailed it out of the room.  
  
Buffy stood quietly for a moment, still overwhelmed by the scene she'd just participated in. So many thoughts had flashed through her mind, many concerning hell beasts, the First, a rain of fire ... and Angel. Dawn's anxious gaze skirted between Spike and her sister, the younger girl wringing her hands furiously, unsure of what was supposed to happen next.  
  
"Well then," Spike drawled suddenly, breaking the silence. He straightened up, smoothing the collar of his black duster. "Let's go save the world again, shall we?"  
A/N: I know I just kinda got rid of the Potentials, but they were so friggin' irritating!!!! And I don't even remember if the Magic Shop's rebuilt or where Buffy does her training now, so let's say this is a "hypothetical" training room in the basement or school or something ... plus I think Spike lost his duster last season, but just roll with it. :) 


	9. Chapter Nine

DISCLAIMER: You know the drill; they're not mine. If the airline Amerair really does exist (I have no friggin' clue; I'm Canadian! But I hope not, with a dorky name like that ...), then adamantly declare I am not using its' name for my own whims. Now onto more important matters ... I know in the disclaimer of chapter seven, I said that my story would in no way reflect current ATS happenings because of my disgust for the events presently unfolding on the series. I wanted to clarify that there was a few things, namely two important plot points that have, or will be happening on the TV show. The first, I admit, was not of my own invention originally, but is being twisted to suit my whims. The second I always intended to add to the story and it just so happens that the writers of 'Angel' thought the same thing. I just wanted to let you all know that I'm not a hypocrite or anything, considering how bitter my second last disclaimer was ... so with that said, onto the story. (Do you notice how this little Author's Note section is becoming home to all my crazy tangents? Sorry guys! :) ) The first quote's from the song 'Til I Am Myself Again' by Blue Rodeo (I know I used them two chapters back, but these lyrics really worked!), 'Down At The Khyber' by Joel Plaskett Emergency, 'Evaporated' by Ben Folds Five and 'The Big Picture' by Bright Eyes. Cheers!  
  
******************  
  
"I feel like a stranger from another world,  
  
but at least I'm living again."  
  
-Blue Rodeo  
  
"I got sick,  
  
And I got sicker,  
  
And then I spent a month in bed,  
  
Until the visions came to me quicker,  
  
I saw ghosts and I saw red."  
  
-Joel Plaskett Emergency  
  
"Don't you know I'm numb, man,  
  
No I can't feel a thing at all,  
  
cos it's all smiles and business these days,  
  
and I'm indifferent to the loss.  
  
I think there's a soul somewhere,  
  
leading me around,  
  
I wonder if she knows which way is down."  
  
-Ben Folds Five  
  
*****************  
  
"Excuse me ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. Flight 378 from New York City to Honolulu will be making an emergency landing at this time. Due to sudden weather conditions, we will be landing at the Los Angeles International Airport in approximately fifteen minutes. All outgoing flights will be grounded until further notice. If you have any concerns or questions, please direct them to one of the in-flight attendants. Thank you for flying Amerair."  
  
The tinny voice over the loudspeaker disappeared as an audible groan rippled through the passengers. Many were in the midst of Christmas vacation, eager to arrive on the white sand coasts of Hawaii, not to spend a restless night on the grimy plastic chairs of LAX.  
  
Kate Lockley sighed with resignation and began slipping her magazines into the carry-on bag in her lap. Los Angeles. The last place she wanted to be right now. Or ever again, for that matter. A barrage of memories, mostly unpleasant, came flooding back to her ... images of the disgust and shame apparent on her former colleagues' faces, images of her father's lifeless, bloodied corpse, images of Angel, his beautiful features hideously twisted ...  
  
New York City had been a good place to disappear. A good place to forget. Kate had managed to get reinstated on a police force (-albeit, as Officer Lockley-), bury her past under half-truths and sly mystery, responding to curious inquiries about her history with a casual joke, or sometimes an icy glare. The NYPD cops in Kate's division knew she'd been discharged under strange circumstances, but none had any idea her firing involved a bloodsucking monster.  
  
New York had been so gloriously ... normal, but through the wet drizzle, grey skies and hot dog vendors, Officer Lockley desperately ached to go home. She missed L.A's bustling boardwalks, sun-kissed beach combers and sultry evening breeze; even with the dark, supernatural underbelly she'd so recently discovered, the City of Angels still sometimes called to her.  
  
But she had nothing there. Nothing to go home to. It was easy to resist California's beckoning shores when all they held were memories of a lost life. Her father was dead, her friends thought she was crazy ... and Angel. Angel was still lurking around somewhere, and deep down, Kate blamed him for everything that had happened.  
  
They'd made their peace, parted as allies, if not as friends. But still ... the do-gooder vampire had unleashed an entirely different world on Kate, forced her to open her eyes, accept a new way of existing. A harder way of existing. For that untimely revelation, she would always love him ... and always hate him.  
  
Officer Lockley leaned against the plane window, the cool surface soothing against her forehead. She closed her eyes briefly, wondering how long the delay would last, visions of the awaiting beaches and warm tropical breezes of Christmas vacation taunting her. A sudden gasp startled the jet-lagged cop from her nap. The woman in the neighbouring seat was leaning across Kate, neck craned towards the tiny window, her face ashen with shock.  
  
Kate followed the frightened woman's gaze, her features turning the same shade of pasty white as she beheld the spectacle appearing outside their airplane. She felt herself beginning to tremble, terrified to her core with the implications of this mid-air marvel ....  
  
(-dear God ... thisisnothappeningthisisnothappeningthisisnothappening- )  
  
It was raining fire.  
  
*********************  
  
"Where's the little Irishman? Still sulking?" Cordelia demanded, setting a tray of steaming coffee down amid the piles of ancient texts and loose papers cluttering the office table. Wesley, Harry, Fred and Lorne gratefully accepted hot beverages, thankful for a slight break in their lengthy research session. Angel and Gunn had departed a good two hours before, and the ragtag band had yet to stumble upon any kind of spell that would protect the Hyperion. A sullen Connor lounged upstairs, still annoyed that his father had banned anyone from patrolling until his return. The teenage felt restless, trapped, wanting nothing more than to beat some evil demons into submission. Doyle, still seemingly fazed by recent events, had retreated outdoors, away from the others. Wesley could sympathize with the overwhelming nature of the past day.  
  
"Give the man a break, Cordelia," the ex-Watcher scolded tiredly, sipping his gloriously-caffeinated refreshment. "Three years is a long time to be gone, and a long time to be 'dead', for that matter. Think of all he's trying to absorb right now, while surrounded by almost all complete strangers and an apocalypse to boot."  
  
The young Seer sighed. "I know, Wes. I just ... I want him to be happy that he's back. I know this is hard for him, and the 'End of Days' isn't the most welcoming of circumstances, not to mention that he's got all this uber- guilt about giving me the visions, but it's okay because he's alive again. Right?" She looked to the others for affirmation.  
  
Harry gazed at Cordelia's hopeful features, the fact that this girl was only twenty-one suddenly dawning on her. With the premature worry lines and serious, dark eyes (-that had seen far too much-) it was easy to forget how young she truly was. "Just give him some time," the older woman reassured. "He's only been here a day and this is ... well, things are different. It's hard to accept that the world moved on without you. Besides, we don't even really know where Francis spent the last three years."  
  
"He mentioned something about a 'Wishverse'," Fred piped up. "An alternate Hellmouth. Guess he kinda did the same stuff ... killing vampires ... but without Angel or Cordy ... or pretty much anyone, since they were dead and all." The Pylean refugee failed to notice Cordelia's shocked stare as she crinkled her nose, pondering a sudden, all-too-familiar afterthought.  
  
"Musta been lonely."  
  
****************  
  
Doyle skulked around the Hyperion's darkened courtyard, trying extremely hard not to look "all broody and self-flagellating", as Cordelia had so tactlessly put it. After the young Seer's vision, Angel had taken off to the L.A County Jail with Gunn in tow, instructing Wesley, Fred, Lorne and Harry to search for some type of sanctuary spell for the Hyperion, some sort of protection from the fire. Also before his departure were fierce instructions to Doyle about staying put. The half-demon had argued that miraculous dimension-traveling and spontaneous, feverish comas didn't constitute a reason to stay out of the action, but the vampire was adamant about Doyle "resting up" and "regaining his strength".  
  
The logical side of the Irishman's brain agreed whole-heartedly with Angel, was nagging it's owner to go back to bed, or at least help some magickal research. But going back upstairs meant having to deal with the boxes labeled "Doyle's Stuff" littering his new bedroom, and perusing the relics of an old (-no, make that dead-) life didn't exactly appeal to him. The neatly-packaged shrine to his former existence creeped him out, to be honest. It was like admitting that he'd really, truly, completely died ... which in fact, he had ... but the half- demon wasn't exactly ready to give up the happy "Long Vacation" denial-a-thon. Alternative universes and pseudo-demises were a tricky business.  
  
The other option for the former Seer's evening was the wild party that was researching. As much as Doyle longed for the company of the Three Brainiac Musketeers, he had decided to skip that little shindig and pace impatiently on the terrace. It was selfish and mean, sure, but he didn't fancy catching curious, half-hidden stares from the Fred girl or watching Harry and Wesley make googly-eyes over moldy-smelling books. (-Stupid British idjit droolin' all over Harry, show 'im where ta shove one of them poncy encyclopedias ... listen to yerself, man. Three years pass and ya still got 'jealous ex' down to a T-) Plus, there was ... well, there was a lot, to say the least.  
  
Cordelia had happened upon him there earlier, after recovering from her vision. In her brash but loving manner, she'd informed the Irishman that just because Angel was out for the evening didn't mean someone had to fill his brooding quotient, and that Doyle was in fact allowed to join the living, since he too was now a part of that demographic.  
  
He'd politely declined, pleading a need for fresh air and a promise to come in soon. It was hard, to act as if everything was normal even though fire was raining from the sky and he'd been literally resurrected less than twenty four hours before. To deal with the fact that Angel had a son (currently lurking around the hotel), the apocalypse was right around the corner and Cordelia was some sort of Higher Being suffering the visions that once afflicted him.  
  
Cordy.  
  
(-It always comes back to her, doesn't it? Worlds collide and empires crumble, eh? All for one woman ... a real Helen of Troy ...-)  
  
In addition to dealing with the abrupt shove back into his own world, Doyle was feeling the weighty burden of guilt. After his sudden exodus to the Great Beyond, he'd left a certain 19-year-old ex-May Queen with the head- crunching, mind-numbing visions he'd so often complained about. Not that he meant to ... but still. You'd think something as powerful as messages from the PTBs would come with a little warning sign or flashing neon disclaimer.  
  
That divine transference was just another mystery to rack up there with two vampires producing a (seemingly) human child, Cordelia ascending to a higher plane, current "End of Days"-esque events and why the hell the People Upstairs using him as their personal amphitheatre.  
  
Nothing was making sense anymore. (-Hell man, did it ever? Omnipotent powers, ensouled vampires and alternate dimensions? Since when has your life ever made sense?-) True story ... but still ... coming back to all of it was so much harder. Especially after what happened back in Alterna-L.A; especially after three years of knowing and waiting and wishing ...  
  
For her.  
  
Doyle wanted to say that those past few years of battling demonic hordes in a different dimension had been a continuation of his penance, his quest for redemption. A noble act, even. That he'd been fighting for the preservation of good, making sacrifices to help humanity.  
  
But that would be a complete lie.  
  
The half-demon was ashamed of some facets of his personality, but had come to pride himself on his honesty. After all he'd been through, it was too hard to live a falsehood. The truth, as brutal as it was, had become an old friend, a welcome, familiar visitor. So when Doyle had received "brain flashes" in the so-called Wishverse, updates on his friends from the People Upstairs, the Irishman had accepted them at face-value. Cordelia's demonic pregnancy, Angel and Darla's violent coupling, Fred's rescue, Wesley's betrayal, the growing romance between the vampire and his Seer ... the half-demon understood more about each member of A.I's ragtag family than any of them ever imagined. Because he admitted the truths that they never could. Each one still hid behind some sort of facade, still harboured some long-ago grief or ancient wound. Each one had a weakness, whether they would concede it or not.  
  
Angel's was his redemption, and more importantly, Connor.  
  
Wesley's was the loss of his friends, his current quasi-exile.  
  
And Doyle's?  
  
Well, she happened to be standing right next to him.  
  
*******************  
  
"Nothing," Fred muttered, dumping an armload of papers down the paper with frustration. "I can't find anything that's gonna help us protect the Hyperion, let alone hurt the Beast." The young Texan eased her long, thin frame up off the fold-up chair and sidled out of the room with mug in hand, on the search for more of A.I's 'special-brand-of-yuck' coffee.  
  
Lorne mimicked Fred, rising to follow the girl into the kitchen. "I can only read so many Azkranian scrolls before my head starts to hurt," the green- skinned demon grumbled as he exited the office. "Blah, blah, End of Days, blah, blah, bloodshed and terror. All this 'creatures-rising-from-the-pits-of-Hell' thing is so passe."  
  
"Tell me about it," Harry responded dryly, kneading the back of her aching neck.  
  
Wesley looked up from his archaic tome, offering the enthnodemonologist a weak smile. She returned the gesture, regarding the British ex-Watcher inquisitively as he returned to his reading. There was a wildness, a certain gleam in his eyes. The look of a man had that been pushed to the edge and beyond. A deep sadness seemed to surround him; some quality on his unshaven, haggard face made Harry think that this despondent melancholy was learned. An adaption. That maybe he hadn't always been so ... unhappy.  
  
"I wish I'd known you before," she blurted out suddenly, words tumbling out unbidden. 'Good one, sister,' she mentally berated herself, turning a rosy shade of pink at Wesley's surprised expression.  
  
"Before what, Harry?" Cool blue eyes narrowed in amused confusion.  
  
Blushing furiously, the ethnodemonologist began to take an intense interest in the desk's grainy tabletop, studying the wooden texture with great concern. "Before, before whatever made you so sad happened," she murmured, feeling like a stupid (-nosy-) little schoolgirl. What was this, grade school? Since when did Harriet Doyle go all weak-kneed and silly at the thought of an (admittedly handsome) man she'd just met?  
  
Wesley exhaled a deep, heavy sigh, his entire form sagging with that release. He slipped off his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose slowly, methodically. Looking far older than his late-twenty something years, the supernatural investigator slouched forward with weariness. "Harry ..." he began, voice betraying that same half-hidden pain. But whether Wesley planned on spilling his life story or berating the ethnodemonologist for such a personal question was never revealed, because at that moment Fred re-entered the room, bearing several more cups of coffee.  
  
Harry didn't miss the Brit's reaction to Fred's approach; his gaze hungrily absorbing the soft brown tendrils, delicate features and long limbs, the naked longing apparent in his eyes. Wes shifted uncomfortably, casting another look at Harry and swallowing forcefully. "Yes, well ..." he stammered, his attempt at playing casual failing miserably. "Back to the books then."  
  
The former-Mrs. Francis Doyle felt a surge of disappointment watching Fred and Wesley chat, noting the subtle adoration on the former's features. Maybe that ... maybe she was the reason. (-Strange little family Angel's got here-) What did it matter, anyway? She'd just met the guy literally hours before; they'd barely even had time to say hello and she was already moping over Wesley's preoccupation with another girl. Another girl, she sternly reminded herself, that had known him about five million times longer than she had. Jeesh. Maybe the End of Days did funny things to people. But as she returned to a Samoan text, Harry couldn't help but once again reconsider her immediate attraction and the words she'd so awkwardly stuttered only moments before.  
  
'I wish I'd met you before all of this ...'  
  
(-Before her.-)  
  
*******************  
  
"Fred told me about the whole 'you-existing-in-the-alternate-time-I- created' thing," Cordelia announced in the silent night air. She stepped closer towards Doyle, joining him on the shadowed terrace. "I lived in that world for one day. I can't even imagine three years ..."  
  
The Irishman fished through his jacket, producing a rumpled pack of cigarettes and a silver Zippo. Jamming the smoke into one corner of his mouth, he flicked the lighter open, the glow from the flame dancing on his serious features. The end of the cigarette burned orange, and Doyle inhaled deeply, blowing out a cloud of grey smoke. "If you're apologizin' Princess, don't bother."  
  
If the smoking bothered Cordelia, she didn't let it show. "Don't bother?" she fumed incredulously. "You suffered for three years in a place where the Master snacked on humans like Happy Meals, a place, I might remind you, created solely by my stupidity and conceit. That is so not okay."  
  
The former Seer took another long drag. "Ya didn't know and yea certainly didn't send me there, Cor. Wasn't no sunshine an' daisies, but they needed help and I guess I was the half-demon for tha job."  
  
His lovely companion sighed, sympathy and regret practically radiating from her. "It's not fair, Doyle. You're like, the PTBs' bitch or something."  
  
The Irishman had to laugh, but it was a dry, broken sound. "Maybe I deserved it."  
  
His morose response just renewed Cordelia's frustration. (-Jeesh Doyle, cut yourself a break! Maybe your past isn't perfectly shiny, but too much drinking and one bad decision doesn't deserve emotional crucifixion!-) "Didn't we go over this already? Enough with the self-flagellation! Angel pulls it off, but you sure as Hell don't." Her light sarcasm died off, grin fading from her beautiful features. She stepped closer to the Irishman, studying his miserable expression. "What happened, Doyle? You ... you scare me like this. You're not yourself."  
  
The ex-Messenger turned sharply, eyes flashing. His voice was low and dangerous, ragged with regret. "How would you know, darlin'?" he spat, far harsher than he meant to. "You don't even really know me anyway."  
  
Cordelia recoiled, visibly shocked and upset. Doyle had never spoken to her like that ... never been so ... hurtful. It was a rare moment that a Chase woman was speechless, but the Irishman had just succeeded in doing what few had ever accomplished ... Sunnydale High's former May Queen couldn't think of a thing to say. "I ... I, I'm sorry Doyle," she stammered, still too astounded to even let rise her infamous temper. Her voice turned cold. "Sorry I bothered you. I should go." She turned quickly, thoughts scattered in confusion.  
  
"'Delia."  
  
The sound of her name, rolling off his tongue in that soft, Irish lilt was too much. The anger which had begun to boil to the surface was sated. A shiver ran through her, savouring the charming brogue that had haunted her dreams these past three years.  
  
(-He sounds so ...sad.-)  
  
Angel's current Seer ambled back, cautious, still smarting from the half-demon's earlier verbal cut. She reached out and gingerly touched his arm. "Doyle?"  
  
"I'm so sorry, Cor," he sighed. "I didn't mean ta talk so harsh. I just meant that we only knew each ot'er a coupla months, and maybe I wasn't completely honest. Like I wasn't just atonin' fer turnin' my back on my fellow Brackens. Maybe there was ... ot'er stuff that needed redeemin'."  
  
The Seer's brow furrowed. "Like what?"  
  
Doyle squirmed, clearly uncomfortable. He flicked some ash from his cigarette, and indulged in another soothing drag. "Like ... stuff," he muttered, eyes darting everywhere but his companion's face. His mind processed furiously, trying to calculate some way out of the mess he'd made. (-Open mouth, insert foot. Good one, boyo, tryin' ta get all confessional-like about the one thing ya can't tell her.-)  
  
Cordelia echoed the Irishman's earlier sigh, realizing that this line of questioning would lead nowhere. Doyle had clammed up completely and now stood off to her right, fidgeting nervously. The former cheerleader considered the night sky, glad to have the relative protection of the porch roof from the rain of fire. She wondered idly how much more the Hyperion could withstand. No blazes yet, but ...  
  
Suddenly, something dawned on her; an age-old question with an answer much longed for. Without any thought to the consequences, the Seer blurted out her query: "Why did you give me the visions?" The half-demon's look of pure bafflement (and slight terror) simply confirmed her realization that sometimes a self-edit was necessary.  
  
"Uh ... come again?" Doyle stuttered, crushing the finished cigarette beneath his boot heel.  
  
(-Oh well. Too late now ... isn't this how I always used to do it? Cordelia "tell-it-like-it-is" Chase. Honest. Well, tactless too ... but still. At least I told the truth, even if it was brutal. I think I lost that a while ago ...- ) "I got a visit from this demon, Skip, on my birthday, and he told me you weren't supposed to pass those visions onto a regular old human. But you managed to because, uh ..." Here the young woman faltered. (-Surprise, I know you were in love with me? Cue the awkward tension!-) "Because you ... ya know ..."  
  
"Know what?" the Irishman encouraged. "I've been wonderin' the same thing since I never intended ta pass on that skull-splittin' inheritance, so if ya want ta solve tha mystery any time this century, be my guest."  
  
"You loved me. I got the visions because you loved me," she exploded. "The Powers That Be may control life and death, but love's out of their jurisdiction, blah, blah. That whole thing." Her tangent trailed off, and Cordelia was left with an awful sense of dread and one very agitated half-demon.  
  
The Irishman's gaze drifted to the horizon, reliving another place, another time. (-Damn you Skip. Never could keep yer trap shut. All makes sense now, though ... -) "Because I love yea," he repeated quietly, a slow smile growing on his lips. Cordelia didn't seem to notice the dropped past tense. (-I like the sounds of that.-)  
  
The soft orange flow of the fires lit up the current Messenger's ethereal features. She was suddenly intensely shy. "So you didn't know I'd get them?"  
  
"Had no idea, Princess an' I'm still sorry that ya suffered so," Doyle murmured, sheepish, raking one hand through already-mussed hair. "Don't think I even realized that I, well ... um, loved yea ... 'till we kissed." He blushed boyishly, making his nervous, stuttery confession all the more charming.  
  
Her heart fluttered at his adorable declaration. "I don't think I knew either," she responded softly, more to herself than her companion. The Irishman looked slightly confused. Cordelia sighed and strode across the patio, dimly aware of the conversation she'd had there with Angel weeks before.  
  
(-Seems like a lifetime ago-)  
  
The Seer gazed deeply into Doyle's bright blue eyes, surprised at how much warmth swelled within her at his presence. "The answer to your question," she chided, gliding towards the door. She stopped before the entrance, turning back to the half-demon, voice barely more than a whisper.  
  
"I could of learned."  
  
***********************  
  
Connor observed the entire scene from a second-storey balcony, jealousy stirring within him. He was Cordelia's protector now; he loved her and they were going to be together. Primitive urges, borne of a boyish emotional conscience that had barely matured beyond "want" and "need". He understood that Cordy had cared for his father; comprehended that she seemed to care for this Doyle as well. But she'd chosen him ... he was her's.  
  
And she was his.  
  
Forever.  
***********************  
  
"But I have seen the day of your awakening boy and it's coming soon.  
  
So go ahead and loose yourself in liquor,  
  
and you can praise the clouded mind,  
  
but it isn't what you are thinking  
  
it's the course of history,  
  
your position in line.  
  
You are just a piece of the puzzle,  
  
so I think you had better find your place.  
  
And don't go blaming your knowledge on some fruit you ate.  
  
Because there has been a great deal of discussion, yes,  
  
about the properties of man.  
  
Animal or angel?  
  
You were carved from bone, but your heart it's just sand.  
  
And the wind is going to scatter it and cover everything with love." 


	10. Chapter Ten

DISCLAIMER: Need I say ... not mine? Anyway, first off I just want to warn you that I don't have a very large grasp on proper prison procedure, visiting regulations, etc., so please excuse any inaccuracies you might find concerning Angel and Gunn's visit to the jail. (I don't think security would be a super high priority if it was raining fire though ... more like, panic and run, probably.) This is gonna be short, but you try writing six essays in six weeks! :) The song's 'Last Year's War' by Sarah Slean (going to see her play Tuesday! Yay!) Hopefully, I'll have the next installment out in two weeks or so, depending if my muse wants to come out and play. I love them reviews!   
  
"I put this battle in a box  
  
With my military thoughts  
  
And the days where I was almost at my end  
  
Seems to me quite clear now  
  
Now that you are here how  
  
Easily I could begin again  
  
I'm still bloody from last year's war  
  
With liars and lovers untrue  
  
And hey you with your stars out  
  
I have no angry words for you  
  
You didn't have my heart yet  
  
But you stopped before we started  
  
So now you tell me what you want me to do  
  
I can start believing  
  
I can watch you sleeping  
  
But I can't hold my breath 'til she comes back for you  
  
I'm still bloody from last year's war  
  
But no longer drowning in the flood  
  
And hey you with your stars out  
  
You've kissed again don't you see you've already won  
  
You're still bloody from last year's war  
  
Your bandages your bullet holes like mine  
  
And I'm here with my stars out  
  
You say you're scared well so am I  
  
********************************  
  
"It's doing WHAT?!"  
  
Mentally, Angel upped his current tally of 'how many times will Faith ask what's happening outside with shock and disbelief' to six, mildly surprised that a Slayer would find the End of Days (yet again) so unexpected. She'd dealt with a virtual Armageddon before; faced vampires and demons and other assortments of other-worldly creatures. Faced death. But now, as the prospect of saving the world again from some vicious monster loomed in front of her, Faith seemed oddly ... frightened.  
  
"Rainin' fire, apocalyptic nightmare ..." Gunn was impatient, pacing anxiously. "Can we just move on ta the whole 'savin' your ass' part?" He had a bad feeling about this. A real bad feeling. Charles Gunn was spooked. Something was making him itch; the kinda itch where your senses, your intuition catch things before the rest of you does. Where every nerve in your body is screaming 'Get the hell out!' 'The jitters', Alonna had always called them. Survival instincts, really. You got the jitters when that alleyway looked a little too dark, when that mission was a little too easy, when something just wasn't right. And something wasn't right here.  
  
They were seated in the visitation room, a sparse, minimally decorated chamber bathed the sickly white glow of overhead neon lights. Outside, the remaining skeleton crew of guards were busy gathering fire extinguishers, corralling prisoners, answering panicked phone calls. When two young men had arrived, the tall, serious one claiming to be Faith's brother, no one paid much attention. The prison supervisor had quickly ushered them into the room, announcing a ten-minute time limit; the girl would be leaving to transfer jails soon. To some place where fire didn't fall from the sky.  
  
"Chill," Faith retorted, smoothing back her thick, brown mane. "I've just been outta the game for a little while, alright?" Angel realized, quite suddenly, that she was all too right. The young Slayer had been in prison almost three years; no undead creatures to vanish or evil spells to thwart. And here he was, expecting her to dive headfirst back into what had almost killed her.  
  
Angel knelt beside the girl, hand resting gently on her shoulder. Faith looked much older now; hair was longer, no makeup, features pale and drawn. Older ... but wiser. Her wary gaze flickered from the vampire's face to his pale hand, tenderly gripping her upper arm. "Can you do this?" Angel demanded, voice low and full of compassion. It wasn't a challenge, or a threat, or restless confrontation; he just ... cared, that was all. Cared if she could handle being thrust back into the madness of her old life, and all the unpleasant memories that accompanied it.  
  
(-I killed a man.-)  
  
(-... killer ...-)  
  
(-I'm a killer.-)  
  
But then there was Angel, somber brown eyes boring deep into her's, practically pleading for her help, relying on that Slayer prowess and skill to save that day again (-nonononono-) and leaving with him would be the Big Step, the affirmation of her return. She'd have to be strong and responsible; the tragic heroine trying to atone, the fallen phoenix rising from the ashes. Her happy vacation in 'Denial' would be officially over, and she'd have to face the consequences of that little flirtation with the dark side.  
  
Buffy.  
  
Cordelia.  
  
Wesley.  
  
(-Oh god.-)  
  
Faith gazed up at Angel, eyes glistening with unshed tears. "I don't know ..." she whispered, feeling very small and very frightened. "I'm ... not sure." The vampire was taken aback at her unabashed display of emotion. Her icy facade of yester-year was gone, replaced by a plainly terrified young woman, her bewildered emotions naked and honest. He stood, sighing deeply.  
  
Gunn, who had watched the scene with a measure of silence, was thoroughly confused. This was the badass Evil Slayer? Where was the killing and pillaging and burning? The vampire heads for trophies? According to Cordelia's colourful stories, she'd tortured Wes, beaten the crap out of Cor herself and even given Angel a run for his money. All Charles Gunn could see was a broken woman. Pale limbs that had been hardy and agile, plunging stakes into vampiric hearts and ripping demon heads from their bodies. Red lips that might of once sneered in arrogance, or taunted opponents, or smiled wickedly at the thought of the hunt. Dark eyes that used to flash with intensity and passion, a smoldering fire hidden in their deep brown depths.  
  
And now?  
  
This was no heartless monster, no sinister killer.  
  
This was just a little girl.  
  
"The vision," Faith demanded, gaze still trained on Angel. "What did your gal Friday see, exactly?" She was calmer now, seeming to regain some of her infamous aplomb. The Slayer leaned forward in her chair, elbows resting lightly on knees, insides like Jell-O. (-Have to do this. Has to be done.-) "What big bad is coming to get me?"  
  
Angel glanced up at Gunn, who shrugged indifferently and continued his intense study of the ceiling. The vampire turned back to Faith, uncertain in this rapid change of character. (-She's bluffing, but so help me, it doesn't matter. We need her, even if she's terrified.-) "In Cordelia's vision, you were attacked by the Beast ..."  
  
"The Beast?" Faith echoed. Something was bothering her. It had begun as an annoying itch, an irritating niggle at the back of her mind. Now the sensation of 'wrongness' had spread into a cool fear that gripped her bones, her entire body humming with static protest. Beads of sweat collected at the back of her neck; her blood sang. (-Something, something ... not right ... where the fuck is that coming from?!-)   
  
"Horns, cloven hooves, the whole deal," Gunn interrupted, apparently unaware of her panic. "Nasty bastard. Did the whole risin'-outta-the-earth- thing, had a little post-rising-outta-the-earth slaughter, started all the fire, kicked the crap out a' Connor an' Cordy. Not the only weird crap that's been goin' down lately. Don't even get me started on the resurrected Irish guy. All he does is faint and tell us we're all gonna die."  
  
Angel immediately detected the hitch in Faith's breathing, the rapid leap of her heartbeat. Adrenaline was coursing through her veins, system subconsciously revving up for 'fight-or-flight'. She knew, felt the proximity of something decidedly supernatural just like he had. 'The perks of Champions,' Angel thought dryly. Almost two hundred years had honed his senses sharper than Faith's, but the vampire couldn't shake the feeling of being utterly surrounded by this dark presence. There was no location to pinpoint, no distinguishing scent or movement. Just ... a blackness at the edge of his senses, some demonic force hovering near his intuition. (- Almost intangible.-) The creature (what Angel assumed to be The Beast), could be on the other side of South L.A or right next door and they wouldn't know the difference.  
  
By this time, Faith, shaken by the onslaught of ethereal danger, had bolted out of her chair and paced nervously, mimicking Gunn's earlier gesture. "Resurrected Irish guy, huh?" she echoed, shooting a look at Angel. "Don't we already have one of those kickin' around?"  
  
Gunn ignored her dead panned joke, gaze flying between one disturbed- looking vampire and an anxious Slayer, was growing more and more confused. His sense of unease had increased ten-fold, fueled by Angel and Faith's mounting tensions. The young demon hunter might of lacked mystic gifts or heritage, but a life on the streets had taught him one valuable lesson: trust your instincts. (-An' right now, my instincts are tellin' me to grab the girl and run like hell.-)  
  
Gunn wanted to run, bust Faith out anyway they could and hightail it. He was already drawing up a mental plan of escape, calculating the number of guards, nearby exits. At that moment, it wouldn't of mattered if they were busting her out of Alcatraz; Gunn would have fought nail and tooth out of that jail, to get away from that 'un-right' feeling. Was just about to inform the others of his intentions ...  
  
But then the screaming started. 


	11. Chapter Eleven

DISCLAIMER: Still not mine, even though they've been abused horribly by Joss ... Kate met Buffy during 'Sanctuary', riiight? Well, in my little universe she has. Sorry this installment took so long, but I broke my ankle and well, I was having enough trouble getting out of bed to think about getting this published. The first quote's from the Matthew Good Band song 'Look Happy, It's the End of the World", the second's from The Tea Party's 'Requiem' and the last quote's from Soul Coughing's 'Screenwriter's Blues'.  
  
***************  
  
"Hoping  
  
Is out of style  
  
So look happy  
  
It's the end of the world."  
  
****************  
  
"Lost and they set you free  
  
concerned by what they'd see  
  
and you begged on bended knee  
  
still they let you down  
  
say it comes to this  
  
all the things you'd miss  
  
a requiem won't change your fate."  
  
****************  
  
"It is 5 a.m. and you are listening to Los Angeles and the radio man says it is a beautiful night out there and the radio man says rock and roll lives and the radio man says it is a beautiful night out there in Los Angeles you live in Los Angeles and you are going to Recida we are all in some way or another going to Recida some day, to die and the radio man laughs because the radio man fucks a model too gone savage for teenagers with automatic weapons and boundless love gone savage for teenagers who are aesthetically pleasing, in other words, fly Los Angeles beckons the teenagers to come to her on buses Los Angeles loves love."  
  
**********************  
  
Night fell and the city burned.  
  
Each day bled into another as the residents of Los Angeles fled from their homes, the shrill wail of sirens ricocheting through empty streets, fire fighters battling an everlasting foe. Still more blazing cinder plunged from the sky, turning L.A into an orange-hued wasteland of ash and dust. After a couple of days, the warehouse district of the city was beginning to look like a post-apocalyptic nightmare: the charred remains of buildings, scattered debris, panicked, soot-covered survivors. Kate imagined that after a couple of weeks, it would look less a la 'bad-Kurt-Russell-flick- from-the-'80s' and more like ... well ...  
  
(-Hell on Earth-)  
  
She was racing through the crowded L.A streets, dodging abandoned cars and haphazard rubble in her quest for the Hyperion Hotel. As soon as the plane managed to land, her first instinct had been to seek out Angel. Rain of fire equaled vampire with a soul-cum-detective. If anyone knew what was happening (and Kate was highly suspicious of the news reports claiming they were simply experiencing some extreme meteor fallout), it would be him. She still couldn't quite fathom the blazing heavenly remnants that fell around; some small piece of her brain stuck stubbornly in "Normal" protested that 'this can't be happening'. Only the loaded .45 Magnum under her jacket offered Kate any semblance of reassurance; she continually checked and rechecked her police-issued pistol as looters and rioters raced by. Of course, she considered, sidestepping a large piece of flaming ... something, the gun wouldn't do much good against a vampire or demon-y type.  
  
And because Kate's existence had recently become one giant irony, it was almost with expected resignation that she spotted the trio of grinning, blood-soaked undead, prowling the streets in search of fresh kill at that exact moment. With a weary sigh, the police officer reached back into the waistband of her jeans, fingers curling around a well-sharpened stake.  
  
**********************  
  
They'd abandoned the car a couple miles back.  
  
The group of seven, who had endured a hushed, tension-filled ride from Sunnydale, had been greeted by panic and fire on their arrival in Los Angeles, managing to maneuver through the congested streets for a little while. A five-car collision at the intersection on Westshore had convinced the Scoobies that their rented mini-van (which Xander had pointed out was not exactly the type of vehicle to strike fear into the heart of evil) had to be deserted. So now they walked, trudging along in dreary silence, each occupied with thoughts of what lay ahead.  
  
Buffy led the way, pale features set with determination, a nasty-looking axe in hand. At first, the group had concealed their weapons; slid stakes up sleeves and buried cross-bows in knapsacks. After a couple of blocks the Scoobies had realized that fire falling from the sky was far more distracting than medieval weaponry.  
  
Dawn tagged close behind her sister, shivering a little. They'd listened to radio broadcasts on the way up to L.A, announcers with grave warnings to get out of the city, scientific explanations about the 'meteor fallout'. Theories of why Los Angeles was the only affected area, rationalization about the sudden presence of "strange beasts". 'Mass hallucinations, my ass,' Dawn grumbled inwardly, tripping over a piece of concrete.  
  
Willow, Xander, and Anya occupied the middle of the rag-tag band, each too stunned with horror to speak. Even Anya remained reverently quiet. They'd stumbled upon more than one badly-mutilated corpse during their current on- foot journey.  
  
Bringing up the rear were Giles and Spike, both Brits cagey and restless. Spike could sense his Sire; this connection to Angel only fostered his growing uneasiness. The location, the nearness of his vampiric father was always on the edge of Spike's conscious, a constant presence, an influence, in his mind. When Spike began to feel the faint prickles of worry from Angel's mind, he was immediately concerned. As big of a poofster as he was, the elder vamp didn't often spring into a panic unless provoked ... "Buffy!" Spike called out clumsily, her name unbidden on his lips.  
  
The entire group turned to look at him in confusion, while the blond Slayer moved to his side. Whistler's words echoed through her mind as she examined the visibly-shaken vampire. Pre-souled Spike would never admit weakness, let alone show it to the Scoobies. But now ... now, as much as he tried to dismiss it, Spike cared. About them, about the stupid dustball they inhabited, about the "walking HappyMeals" that populated it. "What? What is it?"  
  
"Angel ..." he murmured, voice low, stoic composure beginning to crumble. The sense of wrongness continued to increase as he gazed at Buffy. "I ... I dunno, but I got a bad feelin'."  
  
She stared back hard at Spike. "Then we go. Now," she announced, turning on her heels and commencing a brisk pace. The others exchanged quick glances and hurried to catch up with the determined Slayer.  
  
***********************  
  
Kate knew she was going to die.  
  
When you're a police officer for long enough, you gain the sense to distinguish between situations that are 'haha, that'll make a good story someday' bad and 'your ticket's up, thanks for playing' bad. Collapsed limply into the arms of a vampire, fangs buried into the soft pit of neck and collarbone, Kate knew this had to be the latter. She'd been here before; a bungled drug bust in '96 that left the scar tissue of bullet wounds in her right shoulder and thigh ... an attempted robbery that had her three seconds from a slit throat ... her run-in with that demon spawn Penn a couple years back.  
  
Kate knew.  
  
The second vampire chomped eagerly into her bicep, ripping flesh and muscle as he drained the blood from her body. Red flowed from the wound, soaking her entire left side with the sticky stuff; Kate barely managed to register the sensation. The first vamp she'd dusted without much of a fight, much to his great surprise. The next two weren't as cocky, and Officer Lockley soon found herself flat back on the pavement, one creature of the undead grinning above her. Seconds later, his strong arms encircled her, and in this twisted lover's embrace she felt sharp teeth sink into her skin.  
  
It was horribly painful ... but it was an exquisite kind of pain ...  
  
Suddenly, the two sets of fangs were dislodged as violently as the entered. A blond head entered Kate's line of sight as both vamps exploded into clouds of dust. She crumpled onto the asphalt, weak and coughing. Her shoulder and neck burned; a tinny, metallic taste filled her mouth. Voices, one, or maybe two, distinctly British ...  
  
"She's still alive. Severe blood loss, however."  
  
"After bein' drained by two vamps? Well done, Watcher!"  
  
"Should we take her to a hospital? Are there any hospitals still standing?"  
  
"I believe there's one in the area. Two blocks west, is it Buffy?"  
  
"Yeah, near my dad's place. Dawn, grab some gauze and bandages from the First Aid supplies."  
  
"You brought a First Aid kit?"  
  
"Apocalypse, Xander. The thought of injury did cross my mind. Help me wrap her arm. Careful ..."  
  
Through a dim haze, Kate felt herself being lifted, felt pressure applied to still-gushing wounds. Then she was in someone's arms, carried at a jilted gait. "What's the name, luv?" one of the British voices' asked her, his mouth close to her ear. Kate mumbled a reply, feeling more blood fleck her lips. "Kate?" the man repeated, hurrying his pace. "You stay with us now, girl."  
  
"Kate?" a female voice demanded from somewhere behind. "Her name's Kate? ... I thought she looked familiar!"  
  
*********************  
  
A/N: Da, da, DAH! Sorry this was so short ... again exams beckon and I kinda need to stay in university, as much as I'd love to support myself by writing fanfiction. This is gonna be a long one folks, but hang in for the whole story ... it'll unfold in time. Hopefully, Buffy and company will make it to the Hyperion by the next chapter and maybe we'll find out what happened to Faith, Gunn and Angel ... we'll see ... my muse is fickle! ;) 


	12. Chapter Twelve

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I can't believe it's been a little over a year and a half since I last posted anything on this story. And I send my sincere apologies to those people who sent emails or reviews asking me to continue. It was unfair to leave people hanging; I know I shouldn't post anything until it's done, but I got excited and jumped the gun a little. Whoops. Anyway, this is my valiant attempt to start again, and I'm not quite sure if it's going to work. So much has happened in the past 18 months, and my writing style has changed so radically ... we shall see. I look back at earlier chapters and shudder slightly; apparently I thought verbose equaled talent. Not so much. Alas, I'm far too lazy (and busy, in my own defense) to fix all those mistakes. ANYWAY. the story picks up where I last left it: Doyle, Cordelia, Connor, Harry, Fred and Wesley illin' at the Hyperion, Gunn, Angel and Faith dealing with an unnamed menace at the police station, and Buffy and the Scooby crew (with a slightly worse-for-wear Kate) heading through the streets of L.A. So -- and I say it with a little fear in my heart -- on with the show ...

DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Neither are the lyrics, which are 'Why'd You Want to Live Here', by Death Cab for Cutie, and 'Third Planet' by Modest Mouse (who I saw in concert this summer ... effin' wow).

"the greyhounds keep coming dumping locusts into the street until the gutters overflow and los angeles thinks, "i might explode someday soon."

it's a lovely summer's day and i can almost see a skyline through a thickening shroud of egos.

(is this the city of angeles or demons?)

"The universe is shaped exactly like the earth if you go

Straight long enough you'll end up where you were.

Your heart felt good it was drippin pitch and made of wood.

And your hands and knees felt cold and wet on the grass to me.

Outside naked, shiverin looking blue, from the cold

Sunlight that's reflected off the moon.

Baby cum angels fly around you reminding you we used

To be three and not just two.

And that's how the world began.

And that's how the world will end."

"An' I said I got three men down! I need backup here fuckin' yesterday!"

Doyle threw his walkie-talkie down in disgust, praying that the static gargle meant someone was actually listening to his demands. He hopped up on the pile of crate, his temporary hiding place during the frantic call back to base, and did a quick recon. Eight vamps approaching from the west end, two more in combat with his boys up front and twelve piles of ash littering the warehouse floor. There was at least one body he could see, neck twisted to an unnatural angle -- nice kid, that Jonathan ... a damn shame -- and two more wounded that floundered in the corner, blood pooling around them. If more Whitehats didn't show up soon, they were -- to put it eloquently -- totally fucked.

Doyle scrambled off his perch and raced down to Oz's side, arriving just as he destroyed another vamp. The younger man plunged a shoddy wooden stake into the creature's heart, yanking back viciously as the vampire shrieked and disappeared in a cloud of dust.

"Good work, bud," Doyle complimented, eyeing Natalie as she finished off another. She paused to wipe grimy hands across her jeans, then hustled over to Jer and Rory, scrutinizing their injuries. "Backup's on its way."

"Yeah? Good." Even in the face of danger, Oz was a man of few words. Reaching into a duffel bag, he produced a crossbow and began to quickly load it with arrows. Soon after, the rest of the vampires began to trickle into the warehouse.

Doyle gripped a stake and stared eagerly at the oncoming group. Watching them race towards the humans snarling, snapping; it distantly crossed Doyle's mind that backup still hadn't arrived. As usual, looming death was the least of his worries. There wasn't much left to enjoy in his crappy existence ... this was the only thing that still made him feel _alive_.

Something was bugging him though, something nearly on the end of his conscience. A niggling hesitation ... a cool feeling deep in his gut. Four vampires approached, fangs bared and ready to fight.

Four.

Four coming from the west entrance --

There'd been eight.

Natalie's scream pierced the air. From behind, a hand gripped his throat and hoisted him high in the air. Out of the corner of his eye, Doyle spotted Oz staggering to his feet, blood oozing down his chin.

_There's an eastern entrance too ..._

_Oh sweet Christ. What have I -- _

Then it was all just black.

Doyle woke with a start.

Hunter's instincts sliced through sleep's initial groggy haze, moving his limbs by its own accord. His body snapped upwards, hands roving and fingers splayed, exploring the area around him. Soft, plush fabric, the smell of badly-brewed coffee, disjointed murmurings on the edge of his hearing, but slowly getting louder --

_Couch. Right._

Through one squinted eye:

_Lobby ... musta fell asleep._

Doyle shook the residual sleepiness from his brain and yawned obnoxiously. Cordelia glanced over, rolling her eyes, as he enjoyed a lazy stretch.

"Have a nice nap?" she inquired, teasing but faintly irritated.

"Delightful," Doyle responded as wandered over to the table, stealing a steaming mug that rested next to Cordelia's elbow. He took a long gulp -- forcing back a retch at the awful taste -- and surveyed the scene. Harry, Lorne, Wesley and Fred were still camped out with their books, on to what was probably the third or fourth hour of steady research. The table was littered with dusty tomes, half-rolled maps, an emptied package of potato chips, soggy tea bags, a plethora of chewed-up pens, and pages of scribbled notes, many in his ex-wife's undecipherable scrawl.

Harry was still at it, red curls obscuring her face as she bent over another textbook. Briefly, her eyes flickered upwards at Doyle's arrival. "Oh hi Francis ... ready to do some work?"

Cordelia snatched her coffee back from Doyle's loose grip. "Yeah," she added, slumping back down into her chair. "We figured you could take over for a while one of us passes out ... can I elect myself for that duty?"

Fred and Wesley shrugged, looking non-committal. "Go get your beauty-sleep, honey," Lorne assured. "Sure," Harry agreed, smiling. "I think the rest of us are okay for the next while."

Grinning, Cordelia hopped out of her seat. "Great! Give me half an hour tops, and I'll researching frantically with the best of 'em." She was bounding up the stairs when Harry's cellphone began to ring.

Harry fished through her purse, following the shrill noise. "It's about bloody time Angel learned to use that thing," Wesley muttered, eliciting a wide smile from Fred.

Harry finally produced it with flourish and quickly answered. "Hello, Angel? What's going on?"

Listening several seconds, her cheerful features fell, brows knit in confusion. "You're at the hospital? What -- I thought that ... the prison? Yeah. Is she alright? No, not yet. Okay ... okay, bye."

Cordelia had slowly inched back down the stairs during this exchange, all thoughts of a warm bed or long sleep evapourated from her mind. Images from her earlier vision flowed rapid-fire through her mind: people streaming from the jail, Faith flying backwards over a sergeant's desk, lying motionless on the floor ... She joined the fearful audience surrounding the table, exchanging an anxious look with Doyle as she stepped up next to him. He returned the glance with equal fright, entwining her fingers with his and giving her hand a warm, tight squeeze. In spite of everything, Cordelia couldn't help but smile.

"The Beast attacked the jail," Harry started, holding up her hand for silence when they bombarded her with questions. "No, Angel didn't know how -- apparently, it went right for Faith. Yes, she's alright ... out cold, but Angel thinks she'll be okay. They're taking her to a hospital right now. He wants us to hurry up and find that protection spell. Oh, and check on Connor."

Everyone hesitated, looking expectantly at Cordelia to volunteer. She busied herself with studying the ceiling, her nails, anything except the faces of her friends. Doyle could almost feel her radiating with shame.

Slowly, Fred spoke up. "I guess I'll go see 'im," she drawled, pushing herself up from the table and wandering upstairs. The others reseated themselves and dragged heavy books back into their laps.

"Poor kiddo," Lorne signed. "He must be going nuts with cabin fever."

"Pro'ly just itchin' for a fight," Doyle added, nodding in sympathy. "Lord knows I am."

"Well, it's for his own protection," Wesley countered absently, scanning an encyclopedia of demonic lore. "Can't have 'im running about the city with hellfire raining down and --"

"He's not here!" came Fred's frantic shout from the second storey. The rest looked up at Fred clutching the railing, face etched with panic. "I looked in his room, and three bathrooms and Angel's study and the balcony ... and he's not here!"

"What?!" Harry exploded. "Stupid idiot! Angel told him --"

"Don't matter," Doyle retorted, rising to grab his sword and sheath, which lay still grimy and blood-covered on the front counter. "In one ear an' out the other. Now we gotta find tha lad. Wesley, Cordelia -- you're comin' with me, so get some sharp an' pointy stuff. Lorne, Fred, Harry -- find that damn protection spell."

Cordelia paused for a moment, staring at the suddenly strong, seasoned warrior that stood before her, issuing orders and taking charge like he'd been doing it all his life. He seemed grim, determined ... maybe even ... excited?

Fulfilled?

Bringing herself back to reality, Cordelia hoisted a broadsword from a nearby weapons' chest and tucked a few stakes in the waist of her pants. Wesley had also loaded up on weapons, a nasty-looking axe in one hand and a handgun strapped to his thigh. "Think we'll blend in okay?" Cordelia joked weakly, throwing a knapsack of supplies onto her back and following Doyle out the front entrance.

"Two half-demons wit' a crapload o' medieval weaponry?" Doyle shot back over his shoulder. "L.A's seen stranger."

A/N: Okay, not my best stuff, but there's been worse. I know the story hasn't really been advanced at all, but it'll come together in the end, I swear! Remember ... love them reviews!!!


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